


Forget The Roses, Spare Me The Thorns

by JZXR7



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - The Bachelor Fusion, And then they kiss, Crack Treated Seriously, DATING SHOW AU, Everyone is a repressed dumbass, F/F, General comedy of errors, Geralt is the bachelor and hates it, Grand theft auto, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Homoeroticism, Humor, Like so much, M/M, Misuse of caffeine, Mutual Pining, On the most hetero show ever they're all gay, Scheming, The contestants keep falling for the crew, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, also remember that meme of the girl doing her friends makeup in bed, but they don't know it's mutual, fight me on this, like a lot of it, that is this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:02:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JZXR7/pseuds/JZXR7
Summary: Fans all over the continent tune in each year to watch the train wreck of mass-market romance and cringeworthy behavior that is The Bachelor. They sigh over the roses, the confessions of love, the drama. This year, one Geralt of Rivia stars as the leading man in his quest to find true love...Or so says Tissaia, who will be finding a way to keep her mess of a "show" profitable if it causes a lawsuit. Or ten. Or her own death from over caffeinating.This train wreck in the making is doomed to derail itself, as the contestants seem more interested in dating the crew than in her leading man, who in turn seems more interested in brooding while the host swoons over him.Surely, everything will be fine. As long as one Yennefer Vengerberg stops breaking into her office and her right-hand woman can stop crushing on the woman she's trying to recruit as her next bachelorette.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Sabrina Glevissig/Triss Merigold, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 77
Kudos: 231





	1. We Meet Our Cast

Triss Merigold sinks back into her seat, careful not to wrinkle the floor-length gown she’s been assured several times is not too formal for a first meeting and attempts to meditate. This is made much harder by the presence of several other girls in this limousine, all off to meet the same man. The several other very beautiful girls, most of whom are well on their way to intoxicated and giggling uproariously. Triss is far too nervous to drink or do much of anything besides hope the knots in her stomach unclench before the car stops. Knowing her alcohol tolerance, she’d end up that girl puking her guts up on the first episode and gone before the end of the night. 

The woman next to her seems to be under no such restrictions. She is on her third glass of the free champagne that had been shoved at them the second they got into the car, and Triss has to remind herself that being a judgemental bitch is just rude, but she can’t help but wonder if she should say something. This is, technically, a competition, and letting someone else drink herself into a stupor is probably strategic, but also that would make her a terrible person. And she may be a hopeless romantic, enough so that her friends may think she’s an idiot for agreeing to disappear for up to two months to be on a dating show, but she is  _ not  _ mean and she will not be starting to act that way now!

“Hi. Um, do you want some water? Because you’ve been drinking a lot, and those heels look hard to walk in. I’m Triss, by the way.” She says all of this as fast as possible, feeling a flush creep up her cheeks because she can’t help but find her company a bit intimidating. She has the kind of smile that reminds Triss of women in old noir detective movies, and strikingly vibrant eyes that meet Triss’s with what seems to be amusement. Well, it is somewhat amusing that she’d developed the sheer  _ audacity  _ to dare to speak to her. Shit. Is it too hot in this car, or is Triss just having a social anxiety hot flash?

“I’m Yennefer. And you need to loosen up. We’re on a free vacation, not a job interview!” She offers Triss yet another flute of champagne, and at this point, Triss has to wonder if this woman is some sort of stage magician because  _ where are they even coming from?  _ She examines the two other girls in this limousine to see if any of them find this strange as well, but the first is a bit transfixed on a hand mirror adjusting her eyeshadow and the other won’t meet her eyes. Or anyone else’s. She’s either very shy, in which case Triss wishes her luck because this must be  _ very  _ stressful for her, or is secretly plotting their demise and doesn’t want to befriend them. 

That may be the nerves talking. With a mental admonishment to herself to stop thinking like a crazy person, she takes the champagne. Yennefer might have a point about her needing to calm way down before meeting, well,  _ him _ . Because that was happening.

“Of course it’s not a job interview. But still! All our families are going to be seeing this, and our coworkers, and oh dear gods, what have I done?” It hadn’t seemed real, talking to the nice lady on the phone and even signing the papers. It hadn’t seemed real when her name was on the casting website for the continent’s most-watched dating show for twelve years running. But most definitely felt real now, and while Triss has spent an embarrassing period of time sighing over Geralt ever since he was announced as the next bachelor, she’s starting to realize that her face is going to be  _ everywhere  _ and that’s actually quite alarming. Like, she can feel her palms sweating and her throat is starting to close up, and crap, she needs to get it together. Right now. Deep breaths!

“What you’ve done is signed up to flirt with a guy and see gorgeous places for a few weeks. It’s going to be great. I promise.” Yennefer grins up at her—, a reckless, mischievous thing that shows off her dimples and makes Triss’s long-quashed adventurous streak perk up its ears and beg for attention. She smiles back because she wants a friend so desperately right now that her chest aches, and talking to this woman is at the very least preventing her from dwelling on her nerves. She might meet her husband tonight, in front of the eyes of the entire nation, or she might puke and be thrown out on her ass to be made fun of on social media for months, and yes, this was a mistake. A very grave mistake. Do they have back-up girls to replace her with? Could she just disappear before meeting Geralt and have them stick some other woman in?

“I really hope you’re right.” She doesn’t believe it for a second, but the universe has a habit of surprising people. Maybe she really will meet her soulmate. Maybe she and Yennefer will be friends. Maybe she won’t humiliate herself! It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be  _ fine. _

“I know I’m right. And hey, maybe if we’re really lucky, they’ll sign us on for another season. Two hundred thousand dollars to have a small horde of men trying to get into my skirt sounds like a blast.” Yennefer nudges her with her elbow like this is a great joke between the two of them, and Triss tries her very best not to look affronted. The purpose of this is  _ not  _ just to cash out and sleep with people! Right? 

“They pick the classy ones to be the next bachelorette. Good luck with that.” Mirror woman stares Yennefer down like they’re about ready to start dueling for Geralt’s hand before even meeting him, straight out of a scene in the kind of novels Triss won’t admit to reading when it’s a slow day at her florist’s shop. Her peacekeeping senses are tingling, and her hand slides down to the champagne bottle, ready to confiscate the potential weapon and separate the two women snarling at each other across the aisle. Just in case. 

“And they don’t keep the ones with sticks up their asses past episode one. Same to you.” Well. Uh. That was very...Blunt. She feels like she should be on Yennefer’s side since she didn’t technically start this little pissing match, but  _ still.  _ Why be mean to each other? Her urge to play the beleaguered diplomat rears its ugly head, and she presses her lips together, praying she doesn’t smear her makeup, to remind herself not to blurt out the first thing she can think of to defuse the situation before the two women attack each other in this car.

“If you’re going to fight, you should definitely wait ‘till you’re on camera.” Their driver makes his presence known. Yennefer bristles, hair almost standing on end with the force of her irritation, but she nods before crossing her arms over her chest and turning back to Triss as if nothing of interest had happened. 

“I think I will take that water. Can’t push a bitch into the pool if I’m tripping in my heels.” Triss sighs. That is not why she’d made the offer! But Yennefer is hard to say no to, so she digs the bottle she’d stuffed with ice and strawberry slices out of her purse and hands it over. Making her less tipsy will only help contain this. Probably. No one would actually push a girl into the pool in an evening gown, after all. She might drown!

“We’re here, ladies.” Triss mentally thanks the heavens for the driver. Everyone is too busy crowding around the windows to continue bickering. Yennefer happens to have the window seat, but she scoots over so Triss and her impractical skirt can fit next to her. It’s a very sweet gesture, given the circumstances, and Triss vows to try and make sure Yennefer doesn’t overdo it on her “Free Vacation Booze” because nice people shouldn’t be hungover and miserable tomorrow. If they’re both here tomorrow. Ugh. 

Her urge to think about things like a potential night one elimination is stolen along with her breath as the Toussaint mansion that has been the setting of this program for years comes into view. Every light is on, and it’s crawling with cameras and cables and shouting people. Triss frowns. You don’t normally see this side of things while watching the show and sighing over the declarations of affection and gorgeous scenery, but she supposes there had to be a crew stashed away in the back somewhere even then. A very large crew, at that. Who will all be watching her the second she steps out of this vehicle.

“Relax. You look amazing, you’re adorable, and no one is going to hate you enough to try and make you look bad. Breathe.” Yennefer stares at her expectantly until Triss manages a shaky exhalation. Right. Breathing is important. Her yoga instructor would be horrified at how quickly Triss had defaulted into staring through the window and counting the cameras, rigid as a wooden board. 

“You too. You look great, I mean.” She can’t say no one will want to make Yennefer look bad because clearly someone already does, but she looks fantastic. Instead of the evening gowns that have been an eternal staple of the program— and Triss will admit she got swept along with the almost fairy tale theme and wore one with the full encouragement of the wardrobe department— Yennefer has elected to go for a skin-tight number that is covered in black sequins and has a cutaway that shows most of her back. She would expect to see it in some kind of high-budget club scene in one of the horrendous action movies her old roommate liked, not on a first date, but to each their own. She will admit if that dress were directed at her, she’d be melting. So. Maybe she’s the one doing this wrong. 

  
  


The limo glides to a halt, and Triss’s heart rate shoots into the stratosphere. What if her eyeshadow is smudged? Should she have put her hair up like Yennefer’s new rival? Should she be here at all? She had thought Geralt, with his animal rights activism and love of the outdoors, would fit perfectly into her greenhouses and minor hiking addiction, but right now that doesn’t feel like enough to justify her presence, and she’s panicking. Heavily. 

“Triss. Calm down. I promise if things start going wrong, I’ll set someone’s hair on fire to distract the cameras.” 

Triss splutters because that is the nicest thing anyone’s said to her all night, but also she’s not sure if Yennefer is kidding and that makes her very nervous. “Thank you. But please do not.”

“Fine. No flames, but you have to smile. Deal?”

“Deal.” She shakes Yennefer’s hand. It is very soft, nails polished and immaculate, unlike hers which are covered in strange scars and calluses from spending too much time around garden shears and things that need thorns removed. Yennefer is a warm, exciting presence, and though she’s certainly a bit eccentric, Triss is glad to have her. The doors open, and they’re all blinded by spotlights, but as she’s maneuvered out the door by a stranger’s hand on her arm, Triss is smiling wide enough that her cheeks ache, exactly as promised. 

* * *

  
  


Yennefer watches Triss step out of the car, blue silk swirling out behind her like the tail of a peacock, and waves. Triss can’t see her, of course— she no doubt only has eyes for the muscular, broody guy who Yennefer thinks is named Gerald, but it’s the spirit of the thing. The contract the bitchy lady on the phone had sent her claims that she will be sharing a room until they get rid of some girls and Yennefer is happy to lock down sweet, considerate Triss who doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body before she’s forced to room with someone who will try and dye her hair green in her sleep. That, and she thinks she’ll like Triss, given enough time. Yennefer doesn’t like most people, but she was cute, in a naive sort of way. And very tall. Having a large, possibly intimidating presence backing her up if she gets into an actual, physical fight could also be nice. 

“So. You here for the guy or for Instagram followers?” She is hoping someone will clarify what the guy’s name is before they throw her at him. That would be very nice. She’s not here for him, but she’d like to extend her “Fuck you, mom and dad, let’s see how you like the neighbors seeing me drunk on TV for weeks” trip for as long as possible, and that means putting in some effort.

“I’m not here for this,” the blonde who’s been snarking at her purrs while waving a hand between the two of them, before turning back towards the window. Fine. Yennefer can handle “don’t talk to me”. She’s been that girl often enough to respect it.

“Um. I guess I’m here for him. Geralt, I mean.” Ah! Geralt, not Gerald. Thank you, incredibly mousy brunette trying to sink through the floor!

“Yeah? What’s your name?” She may not last long, which Yennefer knows despite having only watched about two episodes of this shit for research purposes, but she wants to know anyway. 

“Anica. And, um, I think someone else is up now.” Sure enough, Triss is being shown inside the incredibly fancy mansion that is to be their personal hotel. She’s still smiling, to Yennefer’s bemusement, and this time it looks real. 

“Great. See you all later.” There’s no way she’s letting the “I’m too good to tell you all my name” lady out before her. So does she maybe shove her out of the way a bit? Yes. But she is really done with being cooped up in that car, so sue her! She gives the cameras her very best “I’m super drunk and about to cause trouble” smile and heads out, careful not to trip in her heels. Triss was right, they are a bitch to walk in, but Geralt is the height of a small tree so she’s going to suck it up.

Geralt is staring at her. His expression is stony, and while he may have a great poker face, she can see the mix of anticipation and slight anxiety in those amber eyes. She smiles up at him, fluttering her eyelashes. After three cars worth of girls, no wonder he looks a little hunted. Ha. The anti-poaching advocate gets hunted by a bunch of deranged cougars. You can’t make this shit up.

Well, she likes her men quiet and terrified of her, so this could work. And she is here to cause a scandal or twelve, so while Geralt attempts to stiffly introduce himself, Yennefer leans a bit closer until his attempt at coherent speech peters out. Poor man. This must be exhausting. He shares a glance with the chirpy guy acting as host for this whole dog and pony show before drawing himself up to his full, very impressive height. Still silent, though.

“I’m Yennefer. The least crazy of your potential ex-girlfriends, by the looks of things.” Geralt’s eyes widen in what might be shock at her refusal to pretend this is in any way romantic or confusion over what he’s supposed to do now, but he also cracks a smile. Yennefer feels rather accomplished at that.

“Geralt. Er. I’m—Bullocks.”

“So I’ve heard.” Very recently, in fact, but perhaps she won’t mention that bit. She has no idea how ego-driven this guy is yet. “Enjoying being a trophy?” She would bet anything the answer is “fuck no”, and the uncomfortable laugh she gets in return proves it. Oh, this poor man. She has no idea what he’s doing here, but if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll run like hell.

“As much as I’d love to stay and see you try not to be intimidated by a woman half your size, I’d like to not be murdered by my fellow contestants. So I’m going to flee to safety now.” She jerks a thumb towards the large double-doors, a gaping mouth into the belly of the beast. Or, in this case, a very large patio full of alcohol and annoyed women. She senses that’s not going to end well, which may very well be the entire point.

Geralt spares a glance to Yennefer’s proposed destination, almost wistfully, as if he wished he too could exit and spare himself this parade of horny kindergarten teachers and wannabe Instagram models. “It was lovely meeting you. You look amazing. Um…” He  looks  towards the rather annoying chipmunk impersonator in a suit again, who Yennefer notices is mouthing guidance. Aww, tall dark, and handsome needs cue cards. That’s fucking hysterical.

“So do you.” That, at least, is the truth. Geralt is handsome, in a somewhat unusual way. He’s neglected to wear the traditional suit, his jacket and tie abandoned on a nearby bench, and his arms are roughly the size of her head. So while she’s not thinking about marriage, she can work with this. That’s the logic she uses when inching closer and pressing her lips to his. He doesn’t seem shocked by this, pulling her closer far more gently than she would have expected. And even if it’s not the most enthusiastic kiss she’s ever given, the fact that the cranky woman stuck watching from the car is no doubt seething in rage gives it that little extra something. She waves goodbye, and he turns to watch her go, completely missing Not-Anica’s entrance. Point to Yennefer.

* * *

  
  


Yennefer, as much as Geralt dislikes admitting it, is right. This is fucking terrifying. He is expected to discuss his feelings, those which he is supposed to have for quite a few people all at once, which the executive producer had made very clear while explaining that he had been selected as this season’s “Meat Puppet” in her words—because he was “obedient and non-offensive”. Geralt isn’t quite sure what that means, and to be frank, he doesn’t want to know. The producer terrifies him, all five feet and three inches of her, and the ice in her voice brings him back to when he was a child and still in an all-boys glorified military school. To avoid admitting that the aforementioned showrunner—may she conveniently forget that he exists now that the girls are here—scares the shit out of him, he is clinging to the idea that he is here because Jaskier asked him to be. Because being unable to say no to Jaskier is suddenly the better option. Fuck.

Whatever the reasons for his appearance, and the fact that the money he was offered along with the platform for his work was a large part of it, he may have some regrets.

Sabrina, whose title he still doesn’t understand even after his run as a contestant on this mess, had warned him on the way over that, occasionally, introductions can get a bit unusual. Some of the girls try to make themselves stand out. He thought that’s what he was getting when Triss, a girl as tall as him in her heels, had given him a bouquet of roses that put the ones he was supposed to offer the women to shame. He didn’t mind that. They were very beautiful, and after he discovered she grew them herself and told her exactly how impressive that was, she kissed him on the cheek and moved along without attempting to grope him. That was lovely. She was lovely, in a non-threatening way. 

Apparently this is not what Sabrina had meant when she claimed that things could get personalized. A florist giving flowers is just par for the course. No, what she apparently meant is how, three girls later, instead of coming out of the car like Geralt had come to expect, a very boisterous blonde woman in an evening gown had decided to ride in on a horse. Which would have been fine! He loves horses—Roach is his pride and joy—but horses were not meant to be ridden at full speed across a pavement driveway while you are wearing a floor-length dress that resembles the tiers of a wedding cake. This is because it’s very easy to get a skirt like that tangled in the stirrups, and to his horror, that is exactly what happens. His nameless suitor lets out an operatic shriek like she’s attempting to shatter both glass and his eardrums with her voice. She loses her balance, and the horse, a big brawny thing which should never have been allowed near such an inexperienced rider, seems equally distressed and decides that it has had enough, and rears up on its hind legs. The unfortunate passenger is officially dislodged, falling back in what appears to be slow-motion to Geralt’s tired eyes. He’s suddenly glad he abandoned the jacket Sabrina had forced him into, insisting that it was on Tissaia’s orders because when he springs forward to catch the flying woman, some degree of costume mobility is crucial.

She falls into his arms with a dull thud and sighs dramatically before throwing her arms around his neck, muttering something about him being her hero, and Renfri gives him a thumbs-up from behind her camera. He groans. He’s glad he’s generating good footage, really he is, but for every daring rescue that goes viral, it’s less time he can spend talking about his work and raising awareness for the sanctuary he’s working for, which was the whole reason he went on this show as a contestant last season. Fuck. Well, at least Renfri will have a beer for him after this concludes. Preferably more than one. She was his saving grace as he tried to court last season’s bachelorette, always good for a sarcastic comment and a laugh, and it looks like she may remain so this season.

The rest of his seventeenth first-meeting of the night finishes on autopilot. Put what’s-her-name down. Ask if she’s alright. Let her kiss him. He notices that all of them seem to want to kiss him. Triss had asked. That was good. Most of them hadn’t. He would have been encouraged to say yes anyway because that is the nature of this program and he knew that when he signed up, but he has no desire to kiss most of these people who stare at him with their hungry eyes and painted smiles. 

Between takes, they have to wipe the lipstick off his mouth. Pink isn’t his color, the makeup girl giggles, and he cracks a smile because she’s right. It really isn’t, and he’s glad to be rid of it. Color isn’t his color, and if he could go the rest of his life without exciting shades of paint being smeared on him, that would be ideal.

Though the red Yennefer was wearing wasn’t as bad as the rest. She wasn’t bad, in general. Funny, at least, and she gets points for being willing to say this is all bullshit on camera. She was right about how uncomfortable this is. And then she’d kissed him because she was supposed to, and he let her because he was supposed to, and he kissed her back because he wanted to. So that was nice. 

“There. You’re done. Keep being charming and don’t growl at anyone.” Geralt forces a parody of a smile onto his face as the cluster of people in charge of making him look pretty scurry away. It isn’t their fault he hates this so much. It isn’t anyone’s fault. So he’ll be nice like Jaskier reminded him to before they started rolling, and smile. Always fucking smiling. Like a goddamned skull, all pearly white bone and empty eyes.

Renfri wolf whistles at him in mock appreciation and taps her chin, their signal for “head’s up, shit’s about to get real” that they’d developed in the fistfight-heavy previous season of the bachelorette. He stiffens. If horse-lady didn’t merit a warning, he can only  _ imagine  _ what’s about to go down.

He doesn’t have to wait long. He can hear organs, and out of the limousine comes a woman in white with a bouquet of flowers. These, he doubts are for him, because she chucks them over her head and nearly decapitates the centerpiece on one of the stupid little accent tables they put out on the lawn. The always-drunk decorator had claimed they were for ambiance between pre-show shots, but everyone knows they’re really for the exhausted crew to have somewhere to sit after hour eight of this nonstop nonsense. So he can’t really begrudge her for that. He’d like to sit too. The stupid shoes they’d forced him into don’t fit right, not after wearing nothing but hiking boots for years on end. Loafers are a terrible invention.

He can hear Jaskier chortling into his mic, and he’s failing to see what’s so funny until the iconic chorus of the Skelligan wedding march swells and realizes that this woman is wearing a wedding gown. And a veil. And oh, right, she thinks he’s her future groom.

She introduces herself as the future Mrs. Geralt Rivia, which gives him no idea what her actual name is. He is fighting every instinct he has to stay still and let this woman approach him, instead of backing away slowly like he would with an angry moose. He knew weddings did tend to be joked about on this show, but this is  _ not  _ that married at first sight thing Jaskier forces him to watch! Right?

“So, do you like my outfit?”

“Hmmm. I do.” He ignores the double-meaning of the statement, to his companion’s obvious delight. Give them what they want. Big smile, go along with the crazy, beg Jaskier to remember her name so Geralt can discreetly eliminate her before she finds a minister. Do they have a minister? They’re definitely evil enough to have a minister.

The traditional unwanted kiss comes far too soon, and lasts long enough that he needs to attempt to escape in the name of good taste. Her lips are too wet and her nails dig into his shirt to the point where he’s concerned he’ll end up with new scars. Tissaia won’t even be upset if he shoves her. The crazy one is allowed to look bad, after all, and that  _ has  _ to be why she was cast. Please let her be the crazy one because he cannot handle anything worse.

To his great relief, the remaining contestants are fairly nondescript. No one he’s planning to give a ring, that is for certain, but also no one who sends off instinctual alarm bells. The yell to cut the cameras has him sagging in relief, dropping his large frame into one of the white, overly-decorated folding chairs that they probably bought in bulk on sale only to make them look classy later. Just like him, in a way. 

“You did good! Now get up, we can’t keep the lovely ladies waiting!” Jaskier pulls him up, straightening his collar and adjusting his cuffs, moving faster than a hummingbird in flight and twice as colorful. The man has too much energy for this. Jaskier has too much energy, period, and Geralt will shove him in the pool if he doesn’t stop. 

“Fuck off.”

“You know I can’t. Now up you get, or Tissaia will have us both turned into eunuchs before the end of the night. I will start singing if you don’t!” Fuck. Geralt has nothing against Jaskier’s desire to leave the world of television hosting for the stage until the man’s voice is inflicted on him. Not that it’s bad. It’s the opposite of bad. Just very, very loud, and he cannot handle that right now.

“Fine. How much longer is this?” He grunts, hauling himself to his feet and ignoring the jacket slung over Jaskier’s arm, as though he honestly thinks shoving it in his face will make him wear it.

“Well, you have a cocktail party to slay, and then individual meetings with each of the girls, remember not to let any of them steal you away more than once unless you think it will cause a fight, and then the elimination…”

“Jaskier!” He just wants a straight answer. His head doesn’t work like that, calculating timing between meaningless conversations and tears and  _ drama. _

“Hours, Geralt. The most difficult foe you’ve ever faced, and it’s a room full of beautiful women. I should write a song about it.” He’s too tired to object. At least that will keep his sort-of friend, mostly-annoyance busy for a good hour or two. 

“Someone get me a drink.” What he wouldn’t give for his machete and a tranquilizer gun. For the wedding lady especially.


	2. Nothing is illegal backstage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any laws about cast well-being are ignored, and everyone needs therapy

Tissaia de Vries runs a tight ship. Her scheduling is impeccable, budgeting committees quail before her before offering every cent they have, and the legal department is too afraid to call her even after the great proposal fire of season eight. She is a certified, grade-A bitch, and her people worship the ground she walks on for it because rarely does filming ever exceed ten hours at a stretch and they all have actual insurance — even the caterers. Sabrina — as a producer in her own right and Tissaia’s right-hand woman — has not only insurance, but a portion of the show’s profits on top of her paycheck and a ticket to any network she wants should she decide to transfer. Tissaia is her benefactor, teacher, and god. To the contestants, Tissaia is the (usually) invisible hand behind the scenes, directing her minions to gode the villain of the season into ruining kisses or pulling the strings to make the sweet ones cry. To the crew, Tissaia is both the messiah and a possible death sentence, all in one. Sabrina worships her and covets her position in equal measure.

The crackling of the mics in what has been lovingly christened “the war room” almost drown out the muttering of the producers, eager to see which of their assigned girls made a good impression on their statue of a suitor. Sabrina couldn’t be happier with both Triss and Yennefer under her command. She’d recruited them herself, after all, and that means their triumphs are hers for the next eight weeks. And, of course, it is her job to cause them intense humiliation should they step out of line — or if the audience gets bored. Whichever comes first.

Sabrina hates to admit it, looking at the dozens of cameras, but the audience is going to get bored. They’ve done what they could, but Geralt has the charm of a sack of flour. He’s handsome in a dangerous and somewhat weird way, but it’s clearly taking all his patience just to smile for the camera which means the ladies will be the real stars of the show. No pressure! 

She does get why they picked him, though. It had been between him and Vilgefortz, really, and an hour before Vilgefortz’s proposal to their bachelorette was rejected on live television he had decided that going to Tissaia’s office not to complain about his ring or some other nonsense but to kiss her was a good idea. He really should have known that was a suicide mission. Tissaia may not have a literal pride flag on her desk, but the day she wants a man touching her is the day the world ends. 

Sabrina had put the laxatives in his drink herself, then told wardrobe to make sure he was in white pants for his closing interview. She’d do anything for Tissaia’s approval, after all, and this was almost too much fun. Sometimes, Tissaia rewatches that footage when she’s particularly stressed, and if Sabrina could put that on her resume, she would. Not that she’ll probably need one. Where Tissaia goes, so does she. 

“He looks like a taxidermied animal. A beautiful woman just kissed him, and he’s grimacing.” Tissaia glowers at the screen. She hasn’t mentioned that the “beautiful woman” was deliberately scouted because she was also batshit insane. No doubt that doesn’t matter to her. Tissaia has one mission and that is to give them what they need to put on a show, while most of the actual torture of contestants is delegated. No doubt she’s not happy with her lifeless star. Well, Sabrina can help with that!

“Tissaia? Can we send a runner to get Kalis more booze? She and Yennefer nearly got into a fistfight in the car, and if we can get Triss and Geralt acting all wholesome alone, she won’t be there to stop it.” 

“How much has she had? We can’t keep her if she vomits on camera.” The implicit “I will have your head if we can’t keep her” goes unsaid. God forbid all the fun ones get eliminated in the first episode. The good news is Tissaia owns Geralt’s ass, and he probably won’t get rid of all the particularly heinous contestants Sabrina and her coworkers found for the sole purpose of becoming hashtags. There’s too many of them, though most are only sleeper agents right now.

“Not enough. She was a sorority girl, she can hold her booze without puking. What she can’t do is throw a punch. No blood, no injuries, and ratings through the roof.” She’d learned her lesson after an ex-MMA fighter had broken another contestant’s leg. Too many lawsuits there and so much bad press. It was hot, though. 

“Fine.” Tissaia picks up her mic, flipping through the familiar channels without needing to look. She only has eyes for the screens. “Get camera two on Yennefer, find a way to get Kalis a step closer to wasted, and shove Triss at Geralt. After all that, he’ll probably be happy to see her.” She picks up Triss’s file, appraising the headshot. “Keep this one relatively unscathed. She may be wife material, or else our next bachelorette if she’s as easy to work with as you’ve said.”

Sabrina keeps her face perfectly serene, though internally she’s cheering. That’s a lot closer to “good job” than most people get from Tissaia. And she will admit she doesn’t want to terrorize Triss, who did not give her a single headache throughout her recruitment and has a smile that reminds her of animal shelter commercials, so this is only a good thing.

“I can get Kalis drunk!” Sabrina’s head whips around to find the source of the disturbance. She’s not sure why Rita is even in here, given that her job is to make everything on set look pretty and ensure there’s more than enough booze. It’s probably her love for the drama that encouraged her to stay around, then, and since Tissaia likes her, Sabrina won’t complain. Even though there is really not enough space in here for non-essential personnel. Or anyone, really. The war room has enough space for a table and about five chairs, one of which belongs to Sabrina, one to Tissaia, and after that people have to stand. And there are already far too many people standing in the hopes of charming Tissaia and getting promoted. This is absolutely a fire code violation Sabrina guesses would earn them a fine roughly equivalent to their frankly staggering champagne budget. 

“Fantastic. Hurry, please. Our bachelor seems intent on speeding through these interviews.” Well, fuck. That gives editing very little to work with and they can only draw out the bridal gown fiasco for so long. 

“We could always send in Yennefer first, buy some time for Kalis to drink herself stupid, and then swap Yennefer out with Triss.” Technically, the contestants are supposed to organize their own private meetings with the bachelor, but if the producers let that happen nothing would ever get done and they’d have way less crying. 

“Do that, please. Maybe he’ll make an actual facial expression if she kisses him again.” Sabrina doesn’t wait beyond the “please,” knowing efficiency trumps manners in this particular line of work. One of her many talents is catalyzing the crazy on set faster than anyone else. 

Speaking of crazy, Yennefer is not exactly hard to find. She’s sitting on a bench with Triss like they’ve been friends all their lives, trying to cajole Sabrina’s new golden girl into doing shots. That is not going to fly. Triss is not allowed to get drunk, she needs to continue looking wholesome and relatable for the cameras. Tipsy and giggling is fine, vomiting in trashcans and messy-crying is not. 

“Yennefer! Wonderful. I’m Sabrina, from the casting department. Is there any way you could rescue Geralt? He’s been seized by his apparent new fiance.” She pastes on her sugariest smile and waits. 

“I think I’m good. He can take care of himself, surely?” Oh, joy. She’s going to be one of  _ those  _ contestants. The ones that try to prove they’re above this entire shitshow and subsequently make Sabrina’s job harder. 

“Oh, he can. But frankly, he likes you. And I’d really rather not give Kalis any extra screen time.” She’s talked to Yennefer enough to realize she’s got her own motives for being here. That doesn’t matter as long as she does what Sabrina needs her to do. But it can’t hurt, bringing up the “prize” of this mess, stilted and charmless as he may be.

“Come on, Yenna! You have to go!” Triss, not anywhere drunk but certainly tipsy enough to be excitable and bubbly, shoves Yennefer off the bench and to her feet. Even though Sabrina is only experiencing secondhand exposure to her puppy eyes, they’re lethal. 

“Fine. Kalis is a bitch.” Amen to that. Whatever gets this train moving, and Sabrina back in the war room where she belongs. It doesn’t take long to lose the oh-so-coveted position as Tissaia’s protégé around here, and she knows it. Luckily Yennefer gets her ass moving, and granted, it’s a very nice ass, but Sabrina doesn’t give a damn given the personality attached to it, and Sabrina breathes a sigh of relief. One thing down.

“Thank you, Triss. You look lovely, by the way.” Sabrina moves a little closer, deftly snagging the now abandoned bottle of alcohol Yennefer had left behind. For Triss’s own good, of course. 

Triss, to her credit, doesn’t seem to care. “Oh! Um, thank you. And I’m happy to help! Poor Geralt, I wouldn’t want to deal with that either.” Yes, poor Geralt, with women like Triss swooning over him when he barely speaks so much as grunts impassively. That poor, poor asshole. 

“No one would. The price our stars pay to find their true love, I suppose.” She isn't sure whether Triss is being slated as the future Mrs. Rivia or as their next star, and she figures she ought to plant the seed for the latter option as soon as possible. To avoid another Geralt situation, if nothing else.

“You really believe that?” Triss looks at her then, unabashed hope and idealism in her warm brown eyes, and Sabrina feels her long-ignored sense of guilt suddenly rearing its unwelcome head.

“Of course I do. It’s why I’m here, to help you all.” Liar, liar pants on fire. Or, skirt, anyway. She feels like a terrible person enabling this farce because they are not peddling “true love” so much as two-year marriages that inevitably end in messy divorces. She can’t say that, though. She knows she can’t say that, so she tells Triss what she wants to hear, even though she doesn’t think the poor woman deserves to be conned into cooperating. They get a Triss every year—someone who truly believes in the shit they’re selling—and while Sabrina tried to murder her morals a long time ago, there’s always a twinge of regret when she sends them to their eventual heartbreaks like lams to the metaphorical slaughter. They haven’t literally slaughtered anything after the season three hunting date ended in a hospital visit and boycotts from several animal rights groups.

Tissaia tells her she’ll get over it, eventually— that the average is eight years of this sympathy bullshit before she stops feeling anything but contempt for the endless stream of airheads she recruits, and damn if she doesn’t want to hurry that process of emotional detachment along. But for now, she admires the way the tiki torches Rita set up— another direct violation of the fire code — cast a halo of light around Triss that turns her hair a rich auburn and highlights her freckles and the way her lips quirk up in an eternally-present smile. Sabrina looks, files it all away for future reference when considering how best to show off Triss later on when the field is a bit more competitive and allows herself to smile back at the girl. “He likes you too, you know. You just didn’t strike me as the ‘fight someone for a guy’ type.”

Triss ducks her head, eyes crinkling up with the force of her bashful grin. “Really? I mean, I’m not. Which is silly, that’s the whole point, I know.” 

“Really. You should go grab him next. Yennefer wouldn’t mind handing him off to you, by the looks of things, and then you don’t need to step on any toes.” She winces as the words come out. Ideally, Yennefer would be the distraction, Kalis would get drunk, and then some other minor villain could be sent in to occupy Geralt while they both had plenty of time to get pissed and mean, and then she’d swap in Triss with Geralt, careful to ensure Triss would be bitched at by the girl she’s replacing. Then Geralt comforts her, they kiss properly, and the audience melts at how cute they are, after which they air Kalis and Yennefer trying to murder each other. But Triss seems nervous enough already, so this is just...preventing her from not talking to him at all. Now is not the time for big risks—too many girls get sent home on day one. That’s what Sabrina tells herself, anyway, as Triss thanks her for something she’s doing to be a manipulative bitch.

She needs to go. She’s been out here long enough, and clearly her ethics aren’t dead enough for this job.

* * *

  
  


Rita settles back into her unofficial seat on Tissaia’s left. She knows the other side is reserved for Sabrina and that woman seems so twitchy about making sure she’s Tissaia’s official favorite in the eyes of everyone, so Rita is willing to let it go. As long as she gets to watch Tissaia verbally eviscerate people over her walkie talkie and mutter at the screens like they can hear her, Rita will be happy.

The rum she swiped from catering is also nice. Technically, it was for Kalis, so it’s almost a work-sanctioned thing. It’s just that not even Kalis would drink a full bottle of this stuff on what’s effectively the world’s weirdest first date, so Rita ended up with a little something for herself poured in a metallic tumbler which still smelled faintly of coffee that she’d swiped after one of last season's wardrobe interns had abandoned it that sadly is not going unnoticed by her wonderful peers. 

Sheala, for one, is technically a psychologist for which one could credit her damn-near eagle-eyed perception paired with laser-like focus for sniffing out everyone’s little mental foibles, though honestly Rita wouldn’t be shocked if it was because she actually ran a dystopian dictatorial regime at some point somewhere. She can identify a girl’s biggest insecurity from a mile away, has actual honest-to-the-gods abs, and sometimes, when Rita gets really drunk, Sheala will even carry her around. It’s great. Sheala’s the best and Rita is happy to let her steal her booze and sit in her lap to make up for the lack of other seating options because the closer Sheala gets to Tissaia from her usual setup in the corner surrounded by confidential files, the likelier there is to be an absolute murder of someone’s reputation —e ither onscreen or off. The two of them do not exactly bring out the best in each other, and Rita loves to see it.

“You comfy?” The answer can’t be a yes. This chair was not made for two people. It may not have been made for one person, but they are making it work. She thinks, anyway, until a very strange creaking sound and then a snap leads to the two of them sprawled on the floor, Rita cradling her make-shift flask and mourning what’s already spilled. Sheala smirks down at her, one arm under Rita’s head as if preventing a concussion would save her from losing any brain cells, before springing to her feet like an acrobat. She decides to sit on the table, Rita looking both ways before claiming Tissaia’s empty chair. Tissaia likes to pace around anyway, and though she may raise one perfect eyebrow at Rita’s audacity, she doesn’t kick her out. 

“Enough. Camera three, on Geralt and Triss. Try to get the hand in.” Sure enough, when Rita turns to look, Triss is sitting next to Geralt, who has put an arm around her on  _ purpose,  _ one massive hand on her shoulder. Seeing as he hasn’t bothered to touch anyone anywhere the entire night of his own volition, people are celebrating like they decided to bone in a closet.

“Hey! Five hundred dollars on Triss getting a ring!” Tissaia rolls her eyes but does nothing to curtail the traditional episode one betting pool.

“Three hundred on wedding lady going tonight!” 

“I’m not taking that!” The room erupts into laughter. There’s no way Geralt isn’t getting rid of her. But that’s just one more person who is secretly crazy but good at hiding it that he can’t eliminate. 

“Two hundred on Yennefer for the ring.” Sheala takes another swig of rum before waving a wad of cash above her head. “Well? Sign me up.”

Sabrina pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers, conspicuously not writing Sheala’s name on the whiteboard they've commandeered for this purpose. The backside, anyway. The other side, of course, is for plotting a coherent storyline for the season. As long as that’s the side of it showing every time Tissaia turns around, she’s willing to ignore their shenanigans.

“Sheala. You can’t place bets. You’re a psychologist, you could cheat. Give them bad therapy or something.” 

“If you’d ever been to therapy, you’d know you’ve got a better shot of cheating than I do.” 

“I can’t place bets either. Hence why I run the pool?” Sabrina chucks a marker at Sheala, who deftly catches it and slips it neatly into her purse. Sabrina glares, flips her off like a mature adult and goes to sit down because when annoyed, obviously the solution is to dive into work. Boring!

“Quiet. It’s starting.”

A hush falls over the room, Rita quietly writing her own name on the board using Sheala’s bet “suggestion.” She’ll split the cash with her if need be, but she knows good odds when she hears them. No one makes a sound as camera three zooms in on Kalis, who’s swaying like a palm tree in the breeze, and Yennefer, whose lipstick is just a bit smeared. Triss may be adorable, but Rita knows smart money is on the only woman Geralt has actually kissed on purpose. It’s almost cute. He’s like a brick wall the entire night, then Yennefer shows up and he starts babbling about his horse until he realizes what he’s doing and shuts himself up by kissing her. Cute, and good for Tissaia’s blood pressure. 

Kalis makes a beeline over to Yennefer, staggering like a zombie in a B-grade apocalypse movie. “How dare you!?”

They’re off to a good start! Drunken shrieking is always a good sign.

“Hmmm...No idea what you’re talking about.” Yennefer definitely knows. The woman radiates smugness, staring at the camera like she and the audience are in on a secret together. She knows exactly what she’s doing, then. That’s gonna be a headache for poor Sabrina, but funny for her!

“You ruined my entrance! I swear you did it on purpose!” Kalis is crying. Not just crying, TV crying. Smeared mascara, sniffling loudly into her mic pack, and just generally totally incoherent. Rita is starting to think she may have overdone it with the rum because this is a lot of tears for a relatively minor transgression until she looks at Sabrina’s abandoned bag to her right. Sure enough, a dropper bottle of jalapeño oil and the discarded plastic tamper seal sits between bottles of lotion, enough foundation to paint a wall, several semi-legal painkillers, and tubes of lipstick. Who she convinced to get it in Kalis’s eyes and how is a mystery, but it’s certainly doing the job.

“What, because he wanted to watch me walk away? I think that’s more your problem.” Yennefer saunters forward, getting as far up in Kalis’s personal space as possible. This is a woman who wants a fight exactly as much as they all want her to start one. Oh, Tissaia is going to  _ smile  _ and maybe let Rita bring popcorn into the war room even if the smell drives her nuts, and Sabrina will stop moping because she orchestrated this, and they’ll all make a ton of money!

“Cheers to fucking Yennefer!” Rita swings the rum in a toast, nearly knocking Sheala off the table as the sentiment is returned from just about everyone in the room. Soda and energy drinks and coffee slosh about in cups clearly not designed for toasting, in hands far too shaky with stimulants to notice. Tissaia plucks the rum from her hand, ignoring her pleas to return it, and places it on her desk. Not even Rita is brave enough to try and take things off that desk. Not in public, anyway, because her poor Tiss has a reputation and Rita doesn’t want to cause her massive headaches, just the smaller ones.

On the screen, Yennefer hasn’t moved, though Kalis seems to be inflating like a very angry balloon. 

“Gods, you useless bitch!” Cheers erupt. Any time they get to censor someone swearing, it’s a good day. There’s even greater applause when Kalis flings herself at Yennefer, who neatly steps aside instead of decking her like everyone expected. 

Kalis goes sailing into the pool, moving far too quickly to steady herself. No one moves to help her as she drags herself out. Rita snorts. She hasn’t had her Geralt time yet, so that should be one hell of a second impression!

“Have we ever had someone fall into the pool in formal attire before?” Tissaia’s face is expressionless, and the entire room waits with bated breath to see whether or not she’s pleased with the new development.

“I certainly don’t remember it happening?” 

“Write it down. Next time, that happens later in the season. The stakes are too low, no one cares about her. A fan favorite on a group date, though? That’s how you make a villain.” 

Sabrina’s imitation of Tissaia’s constant resting bitch face slips for just a few seconds as she puffs up with pride. It’s not often someone thinks of something Tissaia hadn’t already pulled before they graduated college. Rita nudges her shoulder and beams, actually getting a smile back, because Sabrina may try very hard not to have any feelings other than anger and ambition, but she still preens under Tissaia’s approval. Rita likes her, or at least, likes her when the ice bitch persona slips. She reminds Rita of who Tissaia was before she started considering everyone’s paycheck, safety, and continued employment her personal responsibility, and before this show convinced her that love did not in fact exist outside of hallmark movies. 

“Camera one, stay on Kalis as she tries to get herself cleaned up. Who has her? Go get her dried off, but stay out of the frame as much as possible. The season bitch having a meltdown is a classic. Camera two, stick to the girls’ reactions to this. Sabrina, grab someone, and interview them. Get them to take sides. I don’t care whose. Now, show me Geralt and Triss.”

Tissaia barks orders like a general to her troops and people stream out of the room to do her bidding. It’s always fun to watch, though the clipped sentences and harsh tone are a clear indication that Tissaia has been pulling all-nighters again. Rita’s unofficial job is Tissaia’s producer because she needs one just as badly as the contestants, so she’s going to have to stage an intervention on that. Like, the second the eliminations are done. It’s day one, for fuck’s sake!

Tissaia doesn’t seem to care how large the bags under her eyes are, or that she’s gone hoarse from shouting as they got the set ready earlier. Her eyes are locked on the couple on the screen, focused on Triss specifically. Clearly, she’s doing her recruiting in advance this season, and Rita can’t say she blames her. Still. Poor Triss. She seems like a sweet girl, and while Rita thinks having twenty four conventionally attractive morons fighting for your hand looks fun, Triss might actually pick one of them, and no one deserves a life sentence with one of the men Sabrina will scout for maximum drama.

Geralt is holding a rose. Not one of the ones Triss brought, which Rita really wants to start purchasing every year because they’re gorgeous, but the one he’s supposed to give out for first impressions. He manages to sound somewhat engaged as he asks if she’ll accept it, which makes sense. It’s a very scripted moment. There’s only so many social skills required. Triss takes it without squealing, and thank fuck for that because it’s hell to edit and screws with the mics. Renfri zooms in on the way she’s blushing, and it’s like the audience can see the exact moment she decides to curl up in Geralt’s arms. It’s not a kiss, but it is cute, and knowing Tissaia they can spin the whole wholesome and sweet enough to cause cavities angle. Geralt actually smiles and kisses her forehead like a confused high-schooler who doesn’t know how to react to affection. 

“Sheala? How sure were you about that bet?” Sheala crosses her legs primly and scoffs.

“I am an expert. I am positive. Right now, he is chasing who terrifies him less. That will change eventually.” Well. Triss is the opposite of terrifying, all smiles and hot chocolate under massive blankets and platonic affection. So that makes sense. Still, Yennefer better be less scary because Rita is going to be annoyed if she loses a day’s worth of booze money on her.

* * *

It’s close to one am when Tissaia finally leaves her office. She’d promised Rita she’d sleep, not for how long. Her neck is sore from hunching over her computer, and her eyes are dry. Her hands are shaking, and she knows that means she needs to drink less coffee but she very literally cannot do that. Sabrina is not ready to take on any portion of her responsibilities, still far too soft and easily focused on singular details rather than the entire picture, and Tissaia refuses to set her up for failure. That leaves her to spearhead the development of this mess. This very profitable, soul-sucking mess.

She can’t say it’s all bad, she thinks as she watches the eliminations. There’s something inherently satisfying about when a plan snaps into place, the way the crazy bride contestant whose name she never learned tackles Kalis when she takes the final spot and leaves eight other girls eliminated. She’d told Geralt that he had to keep her, and to his credit, he hadn’t tried to argue. Smart man, if a bit quiet. She won’t tell Sabrina to ruin him as long as he keeps behaving, and she assumes he will because he has a mission to promote and at least two women he doesn’t hate. She’s done more with less. 

This would be easier if she were less of a perfectionist. However, letting others handle things has not gotten her a small broadcasting empire and millions of dollars in royalties. So she stays, and she watches dozens of morons compete for the same person in under three months and assume this is actually a good idea, and she doesn’t put someone else in charge of her least favorite but most profitable show. The network would love to replace her with someone cheaper and less interested in following labor laws, and that is just not going to happen. She still remembers her days in the trenches, the hundred-hour workweeks that didn’t seem physically possible, and the crewmates falling asleep behind the wheels of their cars to never make it home. She has a responsibility to them. If that means never sleeping and putting herself through creative hell, she can deal with that. 

The show may be hell, but she wouldn’t trade seeing Rita and Sheala falling on top of each other and pretending they aren’t kissing in the supply closet once a day for the world. Or the way Sabrina grows into her own devious streak a bit more every day. She needs to find that girl something to care about other than the contestants, but it is rather adorable seeing her help her favorites along and assuming Tissaia hasn’t noticed. She smiles, trying to unclench her jaw as she stumbles to her trailer. This was easier in her twenties, that is for certain. 

She stands in her doorway, admiring the stars above them. That never gets old. Her crew may complain about shooting in the middle of nowhere, but the thousands of glimmering pinpricks above her head are almost soothing. She can feel her breaths evening out, a yawn working to escape her lips. Fine. Maybe Rita is right, she should go to bed…

A strange noise shakes her out of this very logical line of thought. Giggling. Near her trailer. There should be no giggling anywhere, but especially not here, because everyone other than her should be asleep unless Rita decided to have a very unorthodox date. She creeps towards the noise, turning on the flashlight of her cell phone with a triumphant grin.

Where she expects to see horny employees in a possible state of undress, she finds herself looking at two of her contestants. Two of her contestants who each have  _ very  _ early mornings ahead of them, so she’s not sure what they think they’re doing, but they need to stop.

“Hi! Were we disturbing you?”

Triss. Her newest bachelorette, if the fans react to her anything like Tissaia thinks they will. She supposes terrorizing them won’t work, since she needs this girl to at least not hate her.

“Just a bit. I would advise going to bed immediately. Filming, as I’m sure you’re aware, starts at eight am. I would assume that showing up on five hours of sleep would be unwise.” She knows this because she does it frequently. It is terrible. She is going to do it tomorrow, and it will be terrible, so perhaps these girls will be kind enough to go away so she can get to the sleeping bit.

“I’m sorry, who are you again? Cause I think if I met anyone who looked or sounded like you, I’d remember their name.” She shifts her attention to the other woman, sprawled out on her back, and utterly unconcerned with Tissaia’s appearance or her future state of sleep deprivation. 

“My name is Tissaia de Vries. Your executive producer.”

“...Right. Not sure what that means, but I like that you’re my anything.” Tissaia sighs. Nothing can ever go right, can it? “Wanna join us? You don’t get stars like this in Aedirn. Or Temeria, apparently.”

“I could be your worst nightmare if I chose. I strongly recommend you return to your room immediately, though if you do not, I request that you stop making enough noise to wake the dead. That is all.”

“I think I forgot where that is. Wanna show me? I promise I’ll find a way to thank you.” Tissaia can feel the blood rushing to her face. It has been a very long time since she had to deal with flirty contestants directly. Occasionally, like last season’s disaster, they force their way into her life, but dealing with this is usually Sabrina’s job, which she excels at. She is thus utterly unprepared for Yennefer’s strange behavior. She would assume at this point that the woman is not here to woo Geralt, but that does not excuse these...shenanigans!

“I am so sorry, she’s had too much to drink. We’ll go back now. It was great meeting you! And, um, sorry again.” Triss does her best to herd a pouting Yennefer away, and Tissaia’s dim fondness for the girl grows exponentially. Manners and audience approval are to be rewarded, after all. Yennefer, on the other hand, she is rapidly starting to find irritating. She wouldn’t dream of telling Geralt to eliminate her, because she is, in Rita’s words, “a riot,” but Tissaia does not want to deal with her. Not if she’s like this all the time and not just when she is indeed slightly intoxicated.

Well. Her bachelor is all but mute, his two favorite girls are the one she needs him to reject so Tissaia can use her in next season and the one who is a potential nightmare, and she’s operating at ten percent less than her usual budget because the new accounting head hates her. It is going to be one hell of a season!


	3. The Jaskier Guide to Horrible First Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid cast is sent on the first round of dates. Sabotage, catty behavior, and highly scripted affection ensue.

Yennefer wakes up to someone slamming their fist into her door like a fucking asshole, shouting about how they’re running late, and didn’t they set an alarm?

Yes. Yes, she did. And between its incessant shrieking and the knocking, she is going to scream. She groans, reaching blindly, fumbling to silence the stupid alarm clock production had stuck in all the rooms until someone, some angelic person, is kind enough to do so for her.

“I have painkillers if you want them. Not to insinuate that you drank too much. Just. If you want.”

Yep. Rooming with Triss had been an excellent idea. “Yes, please. I love you. And whoever’s at the door,  _ shut the fuck up! _ ” 

“Sorry! She’s just cranky!” Triss shouts, and Yennefer winces at the way the words pound at her delicate skull. Ugh. Fucking early mornings are the worst. She shoves herself up into a position that could be called sitting if one was feeling generous enough to ignore how she’s slumped over. Gods, everything hurts. Why had she decided stargazing at one in the morning was a good idea?

Booze. Right. Booze and adrenaline made her think it was a good idea. “Pills. Where?”

Triss, who is rapidly becoming Yennefer’s favorite person on this Gods-forsaken show, though the competition was less than fierce, hands over the pills and more water. Apparently she’s run out of fruit to put in it. This makes her strangely sad on Triss’s behalf, which she’s attributing purely to the weird sappy shit that can happen when one is still barely conscious. Or maybe her period. Who knows? 

“We have an hour to get ready. I didn’t wake you because I know most people don’t get up quite so early, but, you know, retail schedules...The shower’s empty if you want.” Yennefer wants. Yennefer definitely wants. Maybe if she’s very lucky, she can just boil her skin until her headache decides to abandon ship from where it’s taken up its throbbing residence in her temples in favor of finding another person to torment? Not Triss, obviously. Sabrina might deserve it, though, or maybe Yennefer’s dad, who deserves to be hit with a truck, and for whom a mere headache might be too merciful. If she could mail a headache to someone else, she’d love to send it to him. 

“Great. Thanks. I’m gonna go die now.” 

Triss turns away from where she’s been examining various sundresses in the mirror and huffs. “Yennefer. No dying. What happened to ‘have fun, it’s a free vacation?’ Besides, I’m sure Geralt would be heartbroken.” 

Ugh, gross. Yennefer hates it when other people are right. “Hangovers happened.” She doesn’t mention the Geralt thing, because it’s kind of the elephant in the room. Triss seems to really like him, or at least she did when she was waxing poetic about him to the sky last night—or, at least that’s what Yennefer could specifically recall amongst whatever else Triss had been going on about. And like, she gets it, because he is hot and certainly not annoying, but also, if she’s going to be chasing someone here, it’s that producer lady they met last night. Sure Geralt may have that handsome and broody thing going, but Tissaia was sexy as all hell, and also? She knows being an executive producer means money. Seeing as Yennefer is unemployed and trying her best to delay having to return to living with her asshole family, this makes Tissaia all the more attractive. 

Not to say she’s a gold digger or anything, but shitty public schools and childhood trauma do not make a great college application, and the most recent minimum wage job she could get with her very minimal qualifications fell through after she punched a customer for grabbing her ass when she was serving their drinks. This stupid show was a godsend. It saved her a couple of months of rent, at least, because she was able to sublet her place. If she  _ did  _ happen to end up with someone hot to move in with while she figures something else out, that would be fantastic. There’s nothing morally wrong with not wanting to be homeless!

Yennefer shakes her head sharply as if that will get the crazy out. She is not seducing the producer for free accommodations. She’d do that just for fun, for one thing, and for another their dear producer was as bitchy as she was hot, so living with her would be a hard no. Ugh. All that booze must have scrambled her brain, and now she’s going to fully lose whatever she had left of her good sense on top of already losing her bloody mind.

On that cheery note, Yennefer thinks she’d still better take a damn shower before whatever thoroughly unpleasant thing her thoughts are doing today makes her start crying in front of Triss, because not to be dramatic, but she’d rather die. 

As she walks into the bathroom, she abruptly changes her tune and decides that yeah, this show is actually great, because this is way nicer than the shower in her apartment. It has hot water that actually works, the tiles have zero species of mold living between them, and there are no landlords banging on the door because she’s late paying rent again. If only she could squat here for like, ever. Maybe she can land a job as a makeup artist or something and just never leave the set. Is that legal? Probably not. But like. Maybe if she creates enough drama for these assholes they can work something out. 

By the time she’s feeling like a human again, she can hear Triss knocking frantically on the door because “We’re gonna be late!” Yennefer has to wonder at that. She thought that meant  _ she  _ was gonna be late, but it is very sweet that Triss is willing to wait for her, and that more than anything else gets her ass out of the steam and hot water she’s been attempting to cure her many ailments with, wriggle into a leather jacket and pair of jeans, and slap some brightly-colored eyeshadow on her face because it is her gods-given bisexual right to be dramatic. Triss’s meds are kicking in, so it’s not total torture to troop down to what she wants to call a living room but looks more like a cult meeting with all these girls gathered around the table all but salivating as they wait for someone to drop off the cards that will apparently declare who is going on what dates for the day. Yennefer only knows this because Triss told her, and she almost hopes she can stay behind today to sleep her hangover off or maybe go Tissaia-hunting. Both because she’s gorgeous and might be able to like, pay Yennefer to cause chaos or something. Paying her for just about anything would be great. She cannot emphasize how much some money would be appreciated. 

“Good morning ladies!” Jaskier’s high-pitched shrieking brings all the girls to the yard, or in this case the coffee table. Is there coffee? Yennefer would commit felony murder for an espresso right now.

“Good morning Jaskier!” Oh, gods. Please make them stop being so godsdamn  _ peppy _ . The giggling alone is enough to make her want to tear her own hair out, and she  _ knows  _ how gorgeous it is, so that is saying something.

Jaskier clears his throat, brings out some oversized stationery with a flourish that nearly knocks the rose out of his lapel, and announces that Yennefer will not be getting to nap because she is going on a date with Geralt. Alone. In an hour. 

She can feel dozens of angry eyes on her skin, no doubt wishing she’d burst into flames for the grave crime of monopolizing the man. In her defense, she didn’t  _ do  _ anything this time! Besides, possibly piss off the lady in charge or be good for ratings, and she’s not entirely certain which. Triss seems excited for her, flinging one of her arms over Yennefer’s shoulders and rocking the two of them. She’s babbling about how happy she is for Yennefer, and it’s crazy, but Yennefer actually  _ believes  _ her. She’s going on a date with Triss’s crush, and the woman still likes her. She can’t be human. She has to be some sort of alien or angel or  _ whatever,  _ but people tend to be terrible, selfish creatures, and Yennefer is positive Triss simply can’t be one of them. That, or she’s a fantastic actress and playing them all, in which case she deserves to get away with it purely for being so damn good at maintaining the facade.

She’s ready to consider the ordeal over and slink back to her room to get ready for this date — and by getting ready she means swallow her pride and ask Sabrina what she ought to wear — when Jaskier unfurls another fucking card. Right. Group dates are a thing. She’s really damn glad she doesn’t need to deal with  _ that  _ today if nothing else.

Jaskier calls not one, not two, but three Ashleys. All, apparently, spelled differently. Yennefer would be tempted to snicker, but he’s called like nine people and Triss seems to deflate a little with each name. Shit. Yennefer sucks at the whole hugs and comfort thing, but god damn it if this little turd leaves Triss home with like three other people, she’ll grit her teeth and figure it out for Triss’s sake!

Jaskier calls Triss last because he’s a dick, and suddenly Yennefer isn’t public enemy number one — Triss is. Which might make sense, given that she got a rose last night. Like. That would make perfect sense. But seriously? Yennefer’s been the one to be a total bitch. Maybe if she’s really horrible they’ll stop glaring at her, and Triss will stop looking like she’s on the verge of tears?

“Two roses in a row. I think you can pull that off.” She shoots Triss a conspiratorial grin. She’s not kidding at all, hell, she  _ wants  _ Triss to beat all these people.

“No one gets two in a row, Yenna. The people in charge wouldn’t like it.” 

“Well, that’s the only reason it won’t happen, then!” Triss waves her off, as tends to be her habit when given compliments she so richly deserves, and Yennefer finally gives in to the strange urge to hug her. This appears to be the right decision when Triss pulls her in so tightly she can barely breathe. Hugs are entirely foreign territory for Yennefer, and quite frankly a little uncomfortable at that, but then again so are nicknames and aggressively supportive friendships. And dating shows. All of this is unfamiliar and downright bizarre, actually, but not all of it is entirely bad either.

The car ride into the Toussaint countryside isn’t bad at all. Yennefer isn’t a huge nature girl, but the rolling hills and vineyards are very pretty, and most importantly, it’s quiet. There’s ice probably intended for beverages that she’s using on her forehead to chase away the remaining specter of her hangover, and Sabrina took one look at her before deciding to fuck off with unnecessary conversation. She sat down, told Yennefer the date was a surprise and she should just look happy no matter what it was, and then took out her phone. Yennefer is fucking jealous because all her tech was confiscated the second she got to the house. It’s not like she has any family she misses calling, but  _ still _ . Thank goodness she has Triss to keep her entertained!

They roll up to a meadow of flowers, and Yennefer starts to get a bit confused because she doubts this was Geralt’s idea. What could they even be doing here? She may have very impressive physical stamina in certain select activities, but hiking is not one of them! She remembers Sabrina’s “suggestion” and plasters a smile on her face before letting the camera lady help her out of the car. It’s not like she’s in heels, but frankly? Her apparently very chivalrous companion is cute and some assistance can’t hurt.

Geralt is standing under a tree, completely oblivious to them as they approach. She thinks he’s watching a hawk in the distance, but he also could just be staring into space. He’s not exactly the easiest man to read, okay?

“So, are we chasing something living around here? Because if so, I’m warning you now, I hope you’re prepared to carry me back to the car.”

Geralt turns to face her, cocking his head like a confused puppy. Yennefer would assume the script she’s supposed to follow goes something along the lines of “Oh my gods, I’m so happy to see you!” And if she were one of the three Ashleys, she might bother to follow it, but that’s not her thing and never will be. 

“Hmm. No. Nothing lives here.” He almost looks sad that there’s not some massive endangered animal to chase around and put a tracking device on. Thank the gods for small mercies, but that did not tell Yennefer what they  _ were  _ doing. Which was fine. Geralt isn’t a talker, and she respects that. 

“And here I was thinking I’d get a chance to grab those muscles without anyone noticing.” Anyone except the five cameras, thirteen crew members, and the entire nation. The whole point is for people to notice. And Yennefer is happy to let them, if only because revenue from advertising on Instagram as a fan favorite could hold her over for long enough to find another job. Maybe a better one, even. But that means putting on a show, and Geralt doesn’t seem like he’s going to give her a lot to work with unless she’d like to all but molest the man on camera, which she is not doing. For both their sakes. 

“Do you come out to Toussaint often, with your line of work?” She has a brief image of Geralt and a small pack of wolves under the night sky, completely at home and silent as a grave. That might suit him better than strolling under the fall foliage, attempting pleasant conversation. “I grew up on a farm where the only scenery was pits of mud and the horizon line, so this is...a change.” She’d chased the damn horizon off the farm, to the city and several dead-end jobs and even worse dates than this one, but she hadn’t ended up back there nor was she there now so she views it as a win. Another one is that while Geralt may not talk, he seems genuinely interested when she opens her mouth. So, okay. A monologue entertaining enough to amuse her date, captivate the audience, and make the producers keep her around wasn’t coming to mind just then. Fuck.

“I’m not here often, no.” Huh. An actual complete sentence. She’s feeling quite proud of herself. 

“No? Fashion and festivals not exactly your style?” She would guess the answer is “fuck no,” because Geralt is the sort of man who apparently wears cargo pants and well-worn hiking boots on a date. “I’ve never been before. I’m thinking before we leave I should steal a van and find my way to the city, just to see if it’s as pretentious as they make it sound.” She’s mostly kidding because no way would Triss let her commit grand theft auto. But Geralt smiles, and then an honest to the gods laugh tumbles forth, and Yennefer commends herself for that. 

“Careful, or the producer will put a guard outside your door.”

“Then I’ll climb out the window. I’ve had quite a lot of practice. My sister could do it in a miniskirt and seven-inch heels.” Her father had been a rather strict parent, and in being so had taught his daughters all the necessary skills to sneak out of a house at night and back in at five am without being caught. Best thing the bastard ever did for her. “Besides, the producer doesn’t scare me.” 

“She should.” Yennefer knows they’re going off-topic and into the realm of dialogue Tissaia can’t air, but who cares? She offers her hand, and Geralt takes it as they walk. There. They can film them from a distance and cut out what’s actually being said, and it will all look very sweet. 

“She’s tiny. And really cranky. She’s about as scary as a chihuahua, so unless she bites I’m not concerned.” The camera lady who helped her out of the car starts coughing to hide the fact that she’s laughing her ass off, and even Sabrina, who’s listening in with her little mobile control table, seems amused. Yennefer grins. She always did like needling authority figures. Even the hot ones. Especially the hot ones.

Geralt is staring at her like she might be insane or a hallucination. “She...doesn’t bite.” 

“Mmmm, that’s unfortunate.” Perhaps there’s a little too much innuendo in the way she says that. She does recognize that Geralt is the person she’s on a date with. But if small talk is off the table, then she’s going to seize onto any topic he’ll actually respond to with both hands. 

Geralt doesn’t bother to say anything. He stops where they are, staring deep into her eyes as if that will help him determine if she does in fact have rabies or whatever, and starts chuckling like he can’t believe this is actually happening. “Perhaps you should date her.” Well! The man has  _ some  _ sass. This is wonderful!

“Perhaps I should. I can only imagine that whittling down the bitter competition for your hand must be an appealing prospect.” After all, if this is how her date acts around one woman, she can only imagine how he’ll be on this group date thing. Triss might end up having to resuscitate the man if he faints from the sheer ordeal of it all.

“It’s — Great. You’re all lovely.”

“If highly enthusiastic, with no regard for boundaries or personal space?” 

“Hmm.” Sabrina’s walkie crackles and they both hear something about ratings in a very familiar female voice.

“Cut! Can you two  _ try  _ and look like you’re falling in love? What happened to the kissing last night?” 

Geralt sighs, looking for all the world looking like a man facing the firing squad, and Yennefer would be highly offended that the prospect of kissing her is that horrible if it weren’t Sabrina yelling at them. She tends to inspire that face from people, after all. 

“In the name of ratings, shall I kiss you again? If only so she doesn’t summon Tissaia.”

“Yeah. Uh, yes.” Poor, poor man. Who thought that putting him on TV in the first place was a good idea?

“Okay, cameras back on! From the top, less making fun of our boss! Anything but that!” 

Fine. No Tissaia. She can handle that. Filming begins again, and Geralt freezes, staring at the woman behind the largest camera for moral support. That, or they’re dating, which must be super awkward.

Okay. Think. How does she make this look both romantic and appealing to the fans in a way that also sets up another kiss? Geralt is not pulling his weight on this!

“You seem happier, out here. I hope I get to see you in your natural habitat one day. Even if you’ll be too distracted by the bears or wolves or whatever to pay attention to me.” 

This is when a man who is used to lying for the audience would say something along the lines of “Nothing could ever distract me from you” and then kiss her. She knows Geralt isn’t going to say that, but she feels like she’s doing her job setting everything up anyway. 

“You would hate Kaer Morhen.”

...Okay. She feels like she is the only one trying here! Though granted, she wouldn’t be shocked if Tissaia kidnapped Geralt to get him here. “How could I? If you can make getting screamed at by an angry Kalis enjoyable, then I’m sure I’ll love being anywhere so long as you’re there with me.” He wasn’t exactly  _ there  _ during the Kalis incident, but he did show up afterward, and guessing by the grudging look of approval Sabrina is shooting her, they will find a way to edit that shit in. 

She feels as though letting Geralt keep talking is a mistake, so instead, she places a hand on his chest and slowly leans in. The signals could not be more obvious. And finally, he gets the message, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her mouth for a grand total of three seconds before pulling away. She can already hear Sabrina gearing up to yell at them, so she takes things into her own hands.

Yennefer leans forward to whisper in Geralt’s ear. “I’m going to kiss you again. Pick me up, the audience will love it, and the producers should leave you be.” And be happy with Yennefer for being able to manage the star. Everyone wins!

Sure enough, given proper guidance, Geralt is very useful. He sweeps her off her feet like the princess everyone wants her to pretend to be, spinning her around before placing her back on her feet. They stay that way for a few seconds until Sabrina is kind enough to yell cut and they can retreat to a safe distance. 

“Thank you! Was that really so difficult?” Uh, yes? They’ve met twice, Yennefer would like to see her try to make out with a perfect stranger in front of damn near the entire nation  _ and  _ make it camera friendly? Yeah. Pick one of those things, either looking romantic or Yennefer trying to seduce her date, but both is a frankly outrageous demand. Which would fit with Sabrina’s entire personality, but  _ still. _

“We got it right eventually, lady. I’m sure the assorted housewives of Cintra will slide off their couches sighing about young love or whatever.”

“Fine. Can someone get the lipstick off of this man?” Sabrina marches off to her little table to engage in a heated discussion with whoever she’s calling—probably Tissaia. That’s not Yenenfer’s problem unless she wants more footage. The real problem for Yennefer is that she hasn’t decided whether she actually could fall for Geralt yet, but either way she needs him to like her.

“So. Enjoying stardom?” 

“No.” She believes him. He looks like he’d like to challenge Tissaia to a duel right about now. 

“I’m not enjoying waking up at ungodly hours to look pretty for you, but here we are.”

“You don’t need to. Wake up early, I mean. You’re pretty already. Fuck.” They are probably lucky that there are only a few cameras on, or Sabrina would be yelling at him for swearing. Even if it’s justified. This is awkward as hell. 

“Thank you. I wish you could say you don’t need to kiss me on command, but apparently that’s not quite true.” She’d kiss him anyway, to be clear. 

“Fuck it.” 

‘Fuck it’ is probably one of if not the least romantic phrase ever to precede a kiss, but that’s what’s happening right now, apparently. And this one is entirely Geralt’s doing, which makes it infinitely more fun. She likes kissing Geralt, when the blonde bitch chasing them around isn’t barking orders constantly. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Why is it so difficult to do that when I tell you to?” 

As if on cue, Yennefer and Geralt take one look at each other and start snickering. Maybe it’s the expression on Sabrina’s face, maybe the ridiculousness of this entire situation is hitting them, or maybe they’re both super allergic to the pollen on these stupid flowers and this is the reaction. Who the fuck knows? But now she’s having fun. Just a bit.

“Maybe because your face kills the mood, dear.” It doesn’t. Sabrina is beautiful if you’re into ice queens, which Yenenfer sort of is. She’s not sure why this one, in particular, rubs her the wrong way, but fucking with her is fun. 

“Fine. Geralt, give her a rose or don’t, I honestly don’t care at this point.” Fuck. Maybe she went too far? If Sabrina wants her gone because she’s annoying, Yennefer doesn’t know if that’s something she can just demand.

“Here. I mean, will you accept this rose?” He’s holding it out gingerly with his arm fully extended like he’s pointing a sword at her, and when Yennefer goes to take it from him, he seems to forget to let go for a solid few seconds. And just like that, they’re back to cackling like hyenas. Sabrina’s eye is twitching, Geralt’s hair is frizzing up in the humidity, and Yennefer’s very black jeans are stained yellow with pollen. It’s all too goddamned funny, and it’s been ages since she’s laughed properly. It all just comes spilling out of her with Yenneder powerless to stop it. 

“Yes, I will accept this rose.” She manages to keep a straight face until the thing is actually in possession, at which point the giggles start all over again. Did Triss infect her with some sort of highly contagious happy person syndrome? Is that what’s happening right now?

“Enough. Just get in the cars, both of you!” They get in the cars. Yennefer makes sure to keep laughing all the way home, waving her rose at Sabrina every time she looks pissed. Because she is petty, and really, who’s going to stop her?

  
  


* * *

Geralt has never felt like this after a date. He is feeling a lot of things, and while maybe one or two of them at once would be normal, all together like this is just surreal. 

His face hurts from laughing too hard, and he’s still not sure exactly what was so funny in the first place. He’s exhausted and sunburned and more than a little dehydrated not to mention pissed to all hell at Sabrina even though she’s just doing her job — and fucking confused.

He liked kissing Yennefer. He liked kissing Yennefer a lot. He likes Yennefer in general. This bit isn’t confusing, the whole point of this is to find a woman he likes, kiss her on camera, and then ask her to marry him if that particular madness takes him. He signed up for that.

He likes that Yennefer doesn’t make him talk about his feelings, or pretend to be feeling things he isn’t. He likes that she makes him laugh. But the whole thing doesn’t feel quite right, like something’s missing or was never there, to begin with. He doesn’t regret giving her the rose, because either he likes her and he'll like her more when they’re not complete strangers, or he likes her and she’s at least not entirely insane. Either way, she needs to stay.

Jaskier waits until they’re pulling away to talk to him. Sabrina had allowed Jaskier to come along for moral support and because she likes gossiping with him or whatever things people who were normal friends did. Jaskier and he don’t have a normal friendship at all, but the man likes him anyway, for whatever the reason.

“So. That was quite a kiss. Could it be that we’ve found your future wife at long last?”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” He doesn’t know why that’s what he says. It’s not what he means, and if he were better with “feelings words” or whatever, he could say what he means which is “my brain is loud and I can’t today, okay?”. But he isn’t so he just says “shut up, Jaskier.” Somehow — and this is really the reason they are friends, Geralt thinks — Jaskier doesn’t hate him for it. 

“So broody today. How aren’t you in a better mood? If I were in your position—”   
  


“Tissaia’d never let you. Too difficult.” He can do terse chit chat that doesn’t involve feelings. Or he’ll try, at least. He can make an effort. 

“Exactly, so it’s your duty to let me live vicariously through you. Now, if you don’t want to talk about Yennefer—”

“I don’t.” He isn’t sure what there is to say about Yennefer. She’s a human tornado that tricked another girl into diving into a pool fully-clothed, and she makes him actually want to talk sometimes, and he can’t so much as hand her a flower without making a fool of himself. 

“Fine, fine. How about Triss, then? She was lovely. She didn’t attempt to grope you upon meeting. Is that how I win you over, giving you flowers?” 

Jaskier giving him flowers. Stupid. That’s a stupid thing to think about. Jaskier isn’t a florist and if he had flowers he’d probably give them to Sabrina. Or another pretty person. 

“Enough.” He’s tired. More so than he expected to be. He can be out in the bush for days at a time and all his supplies on his back, roast in the sun until the exhaustion sinks into his bones, but it doesn’t creep its way into his brain quite like this does. 

“But look! I come bearing gifts. You don’t want to keep a man with flowers in his pants waiting!” Flowers in his—what? Sure enough, Jaskier has somehow managed to get his hands on an entire meadow’s worth of wildflowers—in his belt loops, one behind his ear that Geralt hadn’t quite noticed, and yes, a few in his pockets. He proudly presents the least damaged ones to Geralt, like the sorriest bouquet he’s ever seen.

He takes them anyway. Smiles, even. This is easier than saying things. Jaskier smiles and begins nattering on about the makeup girl’s boyfriend's affair or something, and Geralt quietly holds his flowers all the way home.

* * *

Triss falls asleep waiting for Yennefer to come back from her date. It isn’t even that late, she just goes to bed early for work and her body decided they were doing that again, like usual. She wakes up at five-thirty, like usual, to find Yennefer passed out in the bed next to her, and while Triss is dying to know how it went, she also recognizes that waking Yennefer up at this juncture would be unwise. She has her own date to get ready for, after all! A date with ten other contestants, but that’s fine! Getting out of the house will be good for her. No matter how nice the house may be.

She goes through her morning routine on autopilot. They always theme the dates after the guys. Geralt is into animals and environmental conservation, and she knows he has a horse because Yennefer told her all about the buildup to their kiss and how poor Geralt brought it up. He named it Roach of all things, and while Triss does get a bit dreamy over the man, she has to wonder what was going through his head while making that decision. So horses and animals are possible themes. That’s fine, she likes both of those things! So why is she so damn nervous?

She decides that she can put her makeup on and get properly dressed after breakfast. A walk will be good for her. To clear her head, if nothing else. And it really needs to be cleared, because the nerves are back and she’s not waking Yennefer up to make her tell her it’ll all be okay.

She makes it to the edge of the garden before a cameraman tells her she can’t go any further. Which, okay, she supposes they can’t have people just wandering around but it’s not like she’d get lost on the massive lawn! She decides to watch the sunrise in a lounge chair by the pool since there’s very little else to do. It’s a beautiful view, and it’s easy to sink into the cushions on the chair and forget that she has a date with her possible future husband very, very soon.

“Mind if I join you?” The sudden interjection breaks the stillness of the morning, startling Triss until she sees it’s just Sabrina. Though Sabrina isn’t “just” anything. 

“Good morning! Uh, yeah, sure.” She likes Sabrina, who has been so very helpful since Triss had arrived here nearly a week ago. She’s quite shocked that Sabrina is even awake at this hour, though clearly she has been for some time because there’s a massive to-go cup of black coffee in her hands, cheerfully covered in spidery handwriting instructing the barista to add seven shots of espresso. That can’t be healthy…

“You’re up early. Excited for today? ” Sabrina leans back in the chair next to her, dropping a pair of sunglasses over her face even in the dark of just-before-dawn. 

“I’m used to it. Preparing orders before the shop opens has me up often.” Even if she can refrigerate her arrangements, it never feels quite right. She likes the routine of it, assembling bouquets as the rest of the city wakes up around her. “But yes. I’m very excited. Nervous, but excited.”

“You’re going to do amazing. I picked you for a reason, and everyone loves you. Even me, and that’s hard to do.” Right. Triss should not be blushing right now, not after a few compliments and a smile. She does not  _ want  _ to be blushing right now.  _ Why is she blushing right now?  _

“...Thank you. I appreciate the pep talks, especially when I’m sure you have so much to do.” She can barely imagine what Sabrina’s job entails. She only knows that she sees the woman everywhere, around every corner, always with her walkie talkie between her jaw and her shoulder, pointing and waving her clipboard like the ringmaster of the world’s most romantic circus. She’s amazing— albeit highly intimidating— and Triss has no idea why she’s bothering to talk to her instead of the half-dozen crew members milling around and clearly waiting for her instruction.

“I do. But taking care of the girls Tissaia thinks have potential is part of my job. And it doesn’t hurt that I like you. Or, well, you’re nice and don’t make my job difficult and I want this to go well. For you. Ugh.” Sabrina takes a massive swig of her coffee, smiling apologetically. “Ignore that. I’m not my usual self early in the morning.”

If Sabrina’s usual self requires  _ seven shots  _ of espresso, Triss wishes she’d let this version out more often if only for her own health. Not to mention she’s more approachable this way. Not that it matters if Triss finds her approachable.

“Well, I like this self too. And things are going well. I think? I have no idea what I should wear to this date, but beyond that, I’m great.”

She didn’t mean to fish for information, or an unfair advantage or whatever. She just  _ says things  _ without always examining if she’s saying too much sometimes.

“Comfortable shoes. Wear something you can run in. And wear pants. Your legs are amazing, you shouldn’t hide them.” Triss isn’t sure if that’s the reason she should wear pants or it factors into the running thing, but she’ll do it either way!

“Thank you, Sabrina. Really. It means a lot.”

“Go get him, darling. He doesn’t deserve you.” Sabrina waves her along, and Triss takes the hint. She needs to get ready anyway. And maybe Yennefer will be awake!

Yennefer is indeed awake, and happy to divulge all the details of her heavily-scripted date with Geralt. The way she describes Sabrina, Triss has to wonder if she has an identical twin running around the set barking orders because there’s no way they were talking to the same person. She’s just decided on a belt that goes with her blouse before the knocking starts, which she assumes is just gonna be a habitual thing now. Great. That’s just great. Love that.

“Good luck, babe. Punch Kalis for me?”

“Absolutely not!” She’s laughing as Yennefer shoves her out the door with enough force to almost bowl over Anica who’s lingering nervously in the hallway like a trembling puppy. It makes Triss feel for the poor girl and she offers Anica her arm as they walk down to meet their fate in the driveway together, piling into black vans and trading rumors of where they might be going. No one else is wearing sneakers. Only two other people are wearing pants. Triss starts to feel a bit nervous again.

They arrive at what appears to be either an obstacle course or the world’s worst fake jungle, and Triss vows to bake Sabrina some thank you cookies for keeping her from breaking a damn ankle. She sees mud pits. Some things that look like vines, but only if your idea of vines comes from cartoons. Some poor intern is even dressed up as a lion.

Geralt looks like he wants to die, and Triss resists the urge to charge over and hug the poor man because that probably wouldn’t improve the situation in the slightest. 

Jaskier welcomes them to whatever this is meant to be with a cheery grin and a few pointed looks towards Geralt, who Triss knows from her more than casual viewing of this show is supposed to be speaking to them himself. It’s sweet that Geralt has a friend to watch out for him. Maybe she should bake Jaskier cookies too? She’ll just make enough for everyone. Who didn’t like cookies?

“Ladies. Today, we will be testing your physical endurance and sense of adventure!” ...Right. Okay, she gets how that could be a valid thing to care about given Geralt’s career involves large apex predators. Or at least the second bit, anyway. The first doesn’t really matter in a world of tranquilizer guns and motor vehicles, possibly. But how did they get from “sense of adventure” to “tarantulas in terrariums”? Her sense of adventure does not include  _ tarantulas.  _ Whose did? 

“Any wife of Geralt’s is going to have to keep up with him, and looking at those long legs, that is not an easy task!” The group laughs dutifully while Jaskier manhandles Geralt into posing for them. He does have very muscular legs. Those are very nice. But still. She’s a little focused on the  _ massive arachnids.  _ “So we’ve set up a little obstacle course for you! The first one to complete it wins a one-on-one date with our leading man!” 

“Fuck Yennefer for getting out of this.” Triss turns her head to see who’s bitching already, but everyone seems captivated by Geralt despite the fact he’s just sort of standing there and brooding. Triss tries her best to be upbeat and think positively, but still. A cranky Geralt and trying not to fall into a mud pit? Not her idea of a great time. Usually, her contact with mud involved potting soil or perhaps splurging on one of those fancy facials, not...whatever you’d call this.

Truthfully, Geralt seemed much happier when he wasn’t surrounded by all of them. And when no one was making a mockery of his work. So maybe if she toughs it out and wins, they can actually talk? She certainly has an advantage given her choice of outfit and practical footwear, if only thanks to Sabrina. 

The race starts with the bellow of what sounds like a foghorn. She’s not sure what that’s supposed to symbolically represent if anything. Perhaps it's foolish to read into anything for allegorical rigor given that it is a reality tv show and not a Jane Austen novel. The gimmicks on this show tend to confuse her a bit. But that’s fine. The first stretch of this mess is a hundred-meter dash to a rock wall they’ve just stuck in the middle of this field, and Triss’s long legs and sensible footwear put her in a sizable lead. The rock wall is a breeze because most of the rocks are more like stairs, and again, the height advantage doesn’t hurt. She’s over the thing before most of the other girls reach it. She may feel a bit guilty for that, but consoles herself with the fact that she probably would have worn flats no matter what. However, doing this in the cute dress she was planning on wearing? Yikes. 

The next “obstacle” is a log hung horizontally over the mouth of what looks like a slip-and-slide of mud down the hillside. Because of course, it is. She pauses to consider her options just long enough for Pavetta to scurry past her and immediately face-plant into the sea of muck because the log rotates. Whoever thought to make the log rotate is an absolute sadist. Triss ignores that particular injury in the making altogether, instead reaching out to pull the sobbing girl up. Apparently ruined outfits are going to be a running theme, this season. Poor Pavetta, she really does seem to cry a lot. This is the third time in two days.

Once Pavetta is safely out of the way, Triss decides that perhaps instead of attempting to walk across a rolling object as so many people are doing, she should just take her chances and try to vault it. People look at her like she’s nuts as she backs away, Anica—bless her heart—going so far as to tell her not to give up. Triss just grins. That wouldn’t be like her at all! She’s never been a quitter, after all, she’s just...thinking outside the box. And her creativity pays off when she crosses the thirty feet between her and the log at a dead sprint and goes hurtling over the five-foot pit. They really shouldn’t skimp on the size of these things, because it was way too easy to outsmart that one. She’s nowhere near in danger of falling in—everything but her shoes are clean—and there are only a few people ahead of her now, struggling to swing over yet another mud pit on ropes that have been spray-painted green. What is it with these people and mud?

She gets her answer when behind her, a loud wail of incoherent rage pierces the air. In the first mud pit sit the second Ashley and the redhead that Triss  _ thinks  _ is named Catherine. It would appear that one of them pushed the other. This is the only logical explanation for why Catherine has her arms around Ashley’s neck and is presently attempting to hold her head beneath the surface in a less than subtle attempt to drown her.

So much for women supporting women. What, exactly, is Triss supposed to do about this? In her normal life, where she is a small business owner and normal and not prancing around with enough stage makeup to sink a battleship and also not conspiring with producers, she’d break this up right now—if only to prevent someone from getting hurt. But Sabrina had said she liked her. Liked her because she didn’t make her job difficult. And she doesn't  _ want  _ to make Sabrina’s job difficult, because when she smiled at Triss it had made her feel like everything was going to be okay, and if she can’t return that favor, she can at least make certain she doesn't make things  _ worse  _ for the poor woman. 

She straightens up and heads towards the ropes. Priorities, after all. She’s not here to make herself look like an angel by breaking up a massive source of ratings, she’s here to maybe fall in love. At least, she hopes so.

The only issue is that for Triss, while hiking and running are things she occasionally does, in fact, do on purpose, swinging on ropes is not. She has very little idea how to do this, and there’s no way she can just jump over this mud pit like she had the last one. Shit. 

Okay. There are three ropes, and she would bet the idea is to get everyone swinging from “vine to vine” à la Tarzan. But it’s fairly safe to say that...is not going to happen. At least not for Triss, anyway. Just making it from solid ground to the first of the ropes, much less the more rigorous eye-hand coordination demands of swinging from rope to rope seems to be flummoxing her fellow competitors gathered on the platform in front of the mud pit, Ashley 1 and Kalis. So. Creativity strikes again, may she not destroy her outfit. 

Instead of going for the first rope, Triss is temporarily possessed with the spirit of Yennefer and decides to do something reckless and dumb. She leaps for the second rope, just over an arm’s reach away. She’d aimed for close to the top because her goal had been primarily not falling, but she may have miscalculated a smidge. Physics was never her thing. Instead of sailing over the pit and being able to pull herself onto the second platform, she gets  _ way  _ more of a swing than she bargained for. She mentally apologizes to the poor editing team for her language, but she is not prepared for this at all! 

The real clusterfuck begins when she starts swinging back towards the start, and Ashley, who has clearly never heard of waiting her turn, decides to copy Triss and charge forward with the determination of an invading horde before missing the rope completely. Which is, you know, bad, but unlike with Pavetta, Triss kind of has her hands full at the moment and is unable to lend any kind assistance. Or, well, she is until Ashley 1 decides that trying to pull Triss off of her rope is a winning strategy. 

Well, it’ll make for drama at the very least. She knows that much. But she’s not giving up without a fight. 

Triss may not know how to swing on ropes, but she remembers vaguely how to climb them from her singular semester of high school gym class. And there’s a big wooden beam holding them all up that she bets she could balance on if she can just make it up there.

She can hear Jaskier’s commentary getting a little shrill, as he asks Geralt, “Is that even allowed?”

The resulting grunt makes Triss pretty sure it isn’t  _ not  _ allowed, but what does she really care at this point? Possible sunk cost fallacy aside, she’s already made it this far, so what else does she have to lose at this point? With one final heave, she hauls herself onto the beam, only to realize she is about twelve feet up in the air, and if she falls, she’s utterly screwed. In her minor panic, she looks over to where the crew is sitting. Sabrina looks almost...proud? Of her? She gives Triss a big thumbs-up and a wink, and Triss decides that perhaps she ought to get a move on and stop staring like an idiot. Now. Before Ashley 1 manages to get up here and shove her off, given that so determined is she to win a date with Geralt, that apparently murder seems completely on the table.

Walking across a beam that sways precariously with every jerk of the dangling ropes below is a highly stressful experience, and anyone else thinking to try it in the audience should probably be encouraged to rethink their choices. Maybe they should stick a disclaimer up when they air this. “Do not try this at home, you will probably want to die.” That feels accurate!

Luckily, jumping the five feet down from the beam to the much higher second platform below is much easier than getting up had been. Which just leaves the tarantulas. They’re not so much an obstacle as they are unabashed hazing, or perhaps merely a really mean practical joke from whichever sadist had designed these dates. In a massive glass terrarium lies a set of car keys, apparently to the vehicle the winner and Geralt will drive away in. Also in the terrarium are several dozen spiders—massive, hairy spiders with far more legs and eyes than any animal has any right to possess. She’s not sure if they bite or not. They can’t be poisonous, right? She did sign a waiver saying the show wouldn’t be liable if she got hurt, but surely they wouldn’t  _ deliberately poison people? _

Just in case, she thinks she’d better grab a stick or something to snag these. Maybe her belt? But she’s not sticking her hand in there. That would just be dumb. 

Triss darts away to grab a promising-looking branch a few feet to the left. She can do this! They’re just spiders, and Geralt had said, or more like Jaskier had said for Geralt, that having a sense of adventure was important. Well, she supposes, then she ought to grow one, starting now. 

She sticks the branch into the tank, successfully snagging the key ring. It’s very wobbly, but as long as she doesn’t drop the damn thing she’s made it out of this thing in one piece, relatively unscathed and with zero spider bites. Her hands have never shaken this much in her life, and the stupid keys keep threatening to fall off with every movement, but she’s almost got them. Just a little closer and she can grab them off the stick without risking them falling back into the tank. A few inches more, and—

And something slams into her shoulders, hard. She hits the ground with a dull grunt of pain, every nerve in her shoulder demanding her immediate attention. It barely registers when Ashley 1 begins joyfully waving the keys over her head, gloating loud enough that anyone in the vicinity would be well aware that she’d won. First of all, that was incredibly mean. Second,  _ oww.  _

“Hey! Triss, look at me.” She forces herself to look up. Wow, sunlight hurts. This is terrible. And there’s Sabrina smiling down at her, which hurts even more. She’d given Triss an advantage, told her she’d wanted her to do well, and Triss had  _ still  _ let her down. If she’d just taken a risk with the damn spiders…

“You did good, darling. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two. I’m not concussed.” She hit a lot of body parts, but her head is not one of them. Her vision is fine. She can see every shade of green in Sabrina’s eyes, the eyelash stuck on her cheek that Triss has a very silly and almost irresistible urge to wipe away —after all, if anyone deserves a wish, surely it's Sabrina. Nothing is blurry. She may be in some pain, but it’s merely bruises and ice packs territory. “I’m sorry.” About not winning. About causing trouble. About a lot of things, but mostly because she feels like crap emotionally and her knee-jerk reaction is to apologize for it. Her therapist would be horrified. 

“Don’t be. None of this was your fault. This, combined with Pavetta? The audience is going to think you’re a literal angel. Can you stand up?” Sabrina offers Triss her hand and pulls her to her feet. Triss towers over her, even without heels, and how one manages to cram that much personality into such a small body she will never understand. She’s very cute, though, and if Triss weren’t covered in mud from being rugby-tackled by a woman looking like a swamp monster she’d be tempted to hug her, but that shirt is obviously worth the annual rent of both Triss’s shop and apartment combined so she will certainly not be doing that.

“Hey. You okay?” Geralt is ignoring Ashley 1 and her increasingly frantic waving of car keys, and instead staring deeply into her eyes in a way that is probably meant to check for asymmetric pupil dilation or whatever, but at the moment, it feels almost romantic. This is ridiculous because she’s a mess and he’s about to depart with another girl. However, this entire date has been ridiculous, so Triss will take what she can get.

“I’m fine. Mildly traumatized by your spiders, but fine.”

“That’s...fair. Shit. Sorry.” He’s smiling at her. She feels terrible, and everything hurts, but Geralt is smiling at her and perhaps it's the way it lights up his usually stony face or maybe she was actually concussed after all, but regardless of the exact reasons, she has the strong urge to leap into the air for a Leprechaun sort of heel click or perhaps do a dance around the clearing to express this overwhelming state of girlish ecstasy.

“Earth to Geralt! Into the car, please. We’re losing daylight, and we can’t set up floodlights in the middle of fucking nowhere!” Sabrina shouts, and Geralt is rushed into the car where Ashley 1 is no doubt fuming as she waits by Jaskier, who gives her an apologetic smile before disappearing inside the vehicle. She waves. Jaskier is nice, and she’d like to get to know him better. As Geralt’s friend, if nothing else, but he seems fun.

“Okay, the rest of you into the vans, please. Not you,” Sabrina grabs Triss’s shoulder. “Medical stuff. Into the car.”

She points to a cherry red jeep that Triss is shocked anyone was willing to let Sabrina drive in her over-caffeinated state. “Come on. No sense adding insult to injury by sticking you with everyone you technically beat. Besides, I need to tell you all about how there’s a hashtag shipping you and Yennefer.”

“I—What?” Triss is familiar with fandom Twitter. But she and Yennefer have a hashtag now? Since when? What bizarre parallel universe  _ is  _ this?

“Uh-huh. Get in, keep smiling. Tissaia is  _ not  _ happy she has to give a full date’s worth of screen time to Ashley the Awful, and so long as I’m giving you ‘official advice’, I can ignore her calls.” Triss does not think ignoring the terrifying woman she and Yennefer had met is a good idea. She gets in the car anyway. It doesn't sound like she will be getting any sort of official advice from Sabrina, but news from the outside world sounds wonderful. Yennefer will be thrilled. And then there’s Sabrina herself. It surely couldn’t hurt to bond with her producer a little, right?


	4. We've Gone Off The Rails On The Crazy Train (Call Dr. de Tancerville)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia is tired. Sabrina is a gay mess. And Rita enjoys WWE impersonations.

Tissaia sinks back into her chair and sighs. Why in the ever-loving hell did people feel the need to call her about things that should so clearly have been discussed via email? Could she fire someone else’s secretary for scheduling this many phone calls about this much inane crap?

Probably not. That would be a massive abuse of power, and she’s quite against those. She’s just sleep-deprived and anxious. That is all. She will take several deep breaths, tell an intern to get her more coffee, and then she will return to filling out episode one’s expense report. She could do that in her sleep. She very likely has done that in her sleep. Or, in a dissociative trance, anyway. It's the same thing, for all intents and purposes. 

She returns her attention to her computer, where it belongs. Six new emails in the time it took her to look away. For the love of all that was good and holy, why do people need so much _hand-holding to get anything done?_

Well, three of them are from Rita and are less budget updates and more pictures of kittens and memes of Yennefer’s assorted strange facial expressions so far. So. Okay, she takes that back. For once, her decorator’s highly unprofessional behavior is less enraging than, well, everything else on the planet at the moment.

_Thunk!_ “Oh, hey!” 

Tissaia looks over the edge of her monitor at whoever was brave or stupid enough to come in here when the door was so clearly closed, while simultaneously breaking her unspoken “make loud sounds during work hours and perish” policy. If it isn’t an emergency, she will have them demoted to the rank of "unpaid intern" in the time it takes them to close the damn thing behind them. She has _one rule,_ and it is “do your own job and leave me alone to do mine.” How is that so _complicated?_

Upon closer examination, this person does not work for her. They may, however, be both brave and stupid, because a contestant willingly seeking her out for seemingly no reason is a new and frankly unnerving experience. She hasn’t dealt with the needs of the sort of people who go on the shows she produces since her twenties when she still had Sabrina’s job and the caterer’s paycheck.

“How, _exactly_ , may I assist you?” Her tone is icy, and she feels no guilt for that whatsoever. Yennefer is here, in her office of all places, when she should be day-drinking or bickering with the other girls on camera or both. So why is she _here_?

“Oh, I was just exploring. You know, the other two people here are too busy moping around to be fun.” Tissaia takes a deep breath and resists the urge to call security. She is aware that Molly and Anna aren’t “fun”. That is precisely why they are not on the truly atrocious obstacle course date that the network suggested they include, and will instead be sent together with Geralt into the mountains on a two-on-one date so he can get rid of one of them. So yes, she is aware Yennefer wouldn’t find them that engaging, but seeing as the idea is to keep the girls bored enough to constantly bitch at each other for drama, that is the _whole point._

“There is no need to explore my office, I assure you.” It’s the nicest way she can think to say that still clearly states her intended meaning of “get out this instant.” Yennefer is already an audience darling, and Rita claims she’s the subject of several viral fanfictions that suggest that she and Triss run away together and have gorgeous babies named after flowers, so Tissaia will attempt to be polite and not completely alienate her. Especially since she seems to know how this game works and is willing to play along. But still. Her office. Is hers. And her throbbing temples would like silence immediately. 

“Well, maybe not explore your _office_. But you’re entertaining. Or at least, Sabrina is afraid of you and you’re absolutely gorgeous, which, close enough. Has anyone ever suggested using you as the prize for this instead of Geralt?”

Tissaia holds a folder full of company credit card statements she had been trying to parse when she was so rudely interrupted in front of her face like a barricade and hopes Yennefer finally takes the hint. She does not want to hear any of this. That is why she is most assuredly not flushing for some reason. “Enough. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  
Yennefer taps her chin in a parody of deep thought, making herself comfortable on Tissaia’s couch. There are quite a few pillows and blankets piled there, the result of frequently napping on the thing or allowing favored underlings to do so, and she looks very much like she won’t be moving any time soon. “Better than staring at you? No. You did kind of take my phone.” 

Tissaia briefly wonders if giving it back would make Yennefer go away, before reminding herself that negotiating with terrorists is not an acceptable policy and it would only encourage her to come back with a list of demands. Still. Her migraines are back in full force this fine morning, and she wants nothing more than to turn the lights off and be an unproductive slug for fifteen minutes while she waits for the pills to kick in. She won’t do that, because it goes against her every principle, but not having an audience for her inevitable loss of productivity would be nice. 

“You agreed to hand over your personal electronics to be here as part of our standard nondisclosure agreement. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work.” She drops the damn folder. She didn’t mean to, it just happened. Could be low blood sugar causing general light-headedness, could be her brain diverting all nonessential resources towards dealing with the pounding in her skull, it could even be the fact she hasn’t slept more than four hours a night in about three days. She’s getting too old for this, but here she is again, just like the last time she told herself she’s getting too old for this.

“Are you okay? Because you’re super pale, and your hands are shaking, and—”

“For the love of all the gods, be quiet!” Shit. Snapping at idiots is never a good sign. And she might have hurt Yennefer’s feelings and—Right. Perhaps she’s more affected than she thought if she’s actually bothering to think about silly things like that.

“Okay. I can do quiet. Do you need, like, a glass of water or something? Should I call someone? That Sheila lady is a doctor, right?”

“Sheala. A psychologist. Do not call her. I am fine.” She doesn’t notice Yennefer abandoned her blanket nest until her hand drops onto Tissaia’s shoulder. She almost jumps.

“Okay. No calls. But maybe you should move away from the expensive electronics if you’re dropping things. Coffee and keyboards don’t mix.”

She really, really hates that this is a valid point. So fine. She will sit on her couch with her cell phone, where the risk of frying anything crucial is almost zero, and then maybe Yennefer will go away?

Yennefer doesn’t seem to be going away. Instead, she sits next to Tissaia, staring at her in abject concern, because she hasn’t been here long enough to realize that Tissaia’s work ethic is infallible even if her body isn’t. The show will always go on, no need for concern, thank you very much!

“I get that I’m a contestant and you could probably ruin my life, but is there any way I can convince you to take a nap before you actually pass out on the floor?” Tissaia feels a pained smile creeping onto her face. Oh good, Yennefer understands the pecking order here better than she’d previously thought. Now maybe she can intimidate her into leaving. Although she looks less than imposing right now, an afghan around her shoulders and her pumps abandoned on the floor. Ugh. She truly does hate it when people see her like this. Or at all. Dealing with humans in person is just so irritating, which is why the walkie talkies were such a fantastic idea in the first place. 

“No, you may not. What you may do is leave. Cause a scene with the two others, go for a run, set the kitchen on fire, whatever, I don’t care. But go.” 

Yennefer mulls this over for a very long five seconds during which Tissaia’s desire to just collapse against the couch or the girl’s shoulder and close her eyes gets distressingly strong. 

“Fine, but I’m totally coming back to check on you. And just sort of stare. You’ve got very pretty eyes, you know.” Why...Why is Yennefer flirting with her? Tissaia was under the impression it had been made clear that the bachelor this season was Geralt and not her. They did mention this, at some point? Surely Yennefer wasn’t actually that dense, right?

“Please. Do not.” She hates the word please, and it says something about her current level of annoyance that she’s employing it. That, or merely Yennefer’s ability to be utterly baffling. In her defense, she’s not used to dealing with people who aren’t at least somewhat afraid of her. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about it, to tell the truth.

“See you in a few hours. I promise I’ll make someone cry on camera so you have something to smile about, okay?” Well. That would be quite helpful, actually.

“Molly is afraid of spiders, and her last boyfriend cheated with her sister. Do with that as you will.” She feels like she’s siccing a rabid bear on the innocent contestants downstairs. She chuckles softly. While she hasn’t done this portion of a producer’s job for some time, the adrenaline of getting away with causing havoc on national television is...Well, she’d missed it. Slightly. And using a proxy is an intriguing idea. 

“Duly noted. Do I win a prize if I can start a fistfight? I heard you give bonuses for them.” ...She does give cash bonuses to any and all minions successful in creating television gold. Yennefer, however, is not officially her minion, but at this point, with Geralt fading into the background of his own season while the women run wild, she will take all the extra game pieces she can get.

“The going rate is one thousand dollars for nudity, calls to emergency services, or catfights. Have fun.” She did not just make a deal with the devil. She didn’t. Probably.

“Get better soon, boss!” Yennefer darts out the door, closing it gently with a cheery wave. Tissaia falls back against her pillows and sighs. Well, her job is to put on a show. She is very likely going to get one. And while allowing a contestant to charge money for deliberately creating havoc is a new strategy, Yennefer is the one who suggested it. Though whoever dared to mention the bonuses near her is going to be on comfort the crying contestant duty for the next week.

Her phone vibrates, skittering along the polished wood like a heavily caffeinated spider until Tissaia finally cracks and picks it up. Missed call from the advertising department. Of course. People that weren’t her employees or her problem are calling her, contestants are breaking into her office, and her right-hand woman has apparently kidnapped her next bachelorette, who will not be going on a date with her star because someone attacked her on camera. Well, that last bit should build audience sympathy, but _really_? 

She still wants to know how Sabrina went from “our future star got rugby tackled by a disgruntled bleach-blonde realtor” to “let’s ride off into the sunset in Renfri’s jeep—the keys to which were pick-pocketed from Renfri so now we can add grand theft auto to the season’s criminal activity list—and let’s kidnap Triss so she can’t cry about it to the other girls in the car while we’re at it.” Sabrina has good instincts usually, which is the _only_ reason Tissaia hasn’t called to tear her a new asshole for that, but _really_? Grand theft auto, even among frenemies with benefits, is heavily frowned upon. And the less said about the assuredly messy intricacies of that little relationship, the better.

Just thinking about the romantic and sexual entanglements of her staff makes Tissaia’s headache even worse, but as long as no one gets arrested, unintentionally pregnant, or commits arson on set, Tisssaia is willing to call it a victory and stay out of it. For now, she is going to sit on this couch, and yes, maybe she should drink something other than the “Death Wish Coffee” Jaskier had brought to set as a joke that very quickly became everyone’s reality and rest her eyes. Just for a few minutes. No one will notice, and she’ll be up in fifteen minutes. She promises…

Rita wakes her up an hour later, a box of croissants in hand, to tell her that Molly and Anna got into a fistfight, after which Anna lit Molly’s suitcase on fire, and that the ambulance just left. Both women are fine, and for once the fire department isn’t angry at them for a false alarm. 

The exact words are “so the really hot firefighter is back, and by the way, Yennefer says ‘you’re welcome’, whatever that means, and also I need more of the budget to redecorate the living room because the boring ones are actually nuts? Anyway, wardrobe needs to get Molly some new outfits and no one got arrested. Are you dying? The last time you napped, it was ‘cause one of the contestants tried to poison you.” 

But at the moment, rather than opening her mouth to try to answer Rita, she busies herself opening the box in preparation to stuff her face because before trying to cope with whatever inane bullshit mornings at her job bring, Tissaia only has eyes for the comfort carbs. She is the boss, after all. She can eat whatever she likes. And so Rita fills her in on everything, in her somewhat unfocused but considerately whispered manner, and Tissaia eats a small mountain of french pastries. She was right. No one noticed she was gone, because Yennefer does better work than some of her employees.

Huh. Well, between Triss and her new under-the-table hire, Tissaia just found her final two.

  
  


* * *

Sabrina has no idea _what_ possessed her to grab Triss like this. But she needs to figure out something even somewhat convincing to justify the decision before they get back because otherwise, Tissaia is going to have questions about why they don’t have footage of the girls in the car vilifying Ashley with Triss as the tearful ringleader, as is traditional after date-sabotage. Sabrina doesn’t have a goddamned answer besides “she looked like she needed a break.” Her entire job is pushing people way past that point so they have meltdowns on camera. Fuck. What is _wrong_ with her today?

At least Triss seems happy. The wind is whipping her hair around but she’s far too captivated by the scenery to notice. The look on her face, the glorious joy she seems to carry with her bathed in sunlight and freckles is really something to see, and if Sabrina thought she could get away with filming the way she’s smiling right now, she would.

“They’re going to want to interview you. About the fact that you got tackled for a date.” What she wants to say is “be prepared to throw Ashley under the bus, because sure as shit is she not only not going to hesitate, she is likely to actually plan which wheels give you the lowest chance of walking away without road rash all over that charming face of yours when she shoves you in front of them .” She doesn’t say that, because Triss doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to deliberately ruin someone’s reputation on live TV or ever, really. Sabrina will probably have to trick her into following the script, but if she gets a decent individual interview with Triss looking classy and polite while still condemning this whole mess, plus if Renfri manages to act like an emergency interviewer for the other girls like the manipulative psycho she can be, then this could all be fine. Probably. Tissaia has been especially pissy lately, but maybe if Sabrina brings her bribery coffee from a real cafe back in civilization she’ll be less...herself. “I don’t know how familiar you are with conflict on this show…”

“Oh, very. I watch it all the time—Um. I watch it a normal amount. Enough to know they’re going to want me to say horrible things about her, anyway.” Triss rolls her eyes, looking at Sabrina expectantly.

Oh, joy. Is Triss expecting her to condemn that little practice? Probably? Can she? Well, no, not honestly, but she’s also a phenomenal liar. “Listen. You are a genuinely good person.” Always start off with the truth. They want to believe the rest of it that way. The best lie isn’t, that’s what Tissaia always says. Just another one of Tissaia’s many lessons, delivered between takes over black coffee at three am in the editing bay, going over footage of the one girl who just wouldn’t lose her shit when they needed to. “What Ashley did wasn’t fair.” Also the truth. They didn’t explicitly _tell_ the contestants not to tackle anyone because they had kind of hoped the contestants would get into some sort of mud wrestling competition in the pits, but that way they at least have plausible deniability for moments like now when claiming complete innocence seems like the best move. “All I’d ask you to do is tell your side of the story. It’s our job to ask questions on camera, after all, especially since Tissaia wants you on screen and we can’t get as much footage of you on this date now. Just don’t feel the need to say that it’s okay that she did that. This show supports screwing over other women for a guy enough, you don’t want to contribute to that even more.” 

And she supports it too, screwing over other people for the chance at “true love,” for the record. Well, in the context of this program, anyway, because anyone who wants the mediocre guys they cast _that badly_ deserves the shit marriage they’re going to “win,” but there is no need to say that because she thinks the feminist undertones of her original statement may have done the trick. So why does she feel so _shitty_ about it? Her stomach is tightening, even as she should be celebrating saving her own ass. And possibly Triss’s too, since Tissaia may have no qualms about getting some tequila shots in her and then retaping the interview until she says what will play well while drunkenly sobbing.

“You’re right that she shouldn’t have done it. I guess. Gods, going back to the house is going to be so awkward.”

Well. Okay, if she’s already kidnapped Triss, then this is something she can make go away. To bond with her. For her career. No other reason. “We don’t _have_ to go back.” 

Triss looks at her like she’s perhaps sprouted a second head. “They haven’t let me off the terrace for a week, Sabrina. I think they’re going to mind if I don’t come back!”

“Not if we bring back actual food that didn’t come off a truck. We’ll bring coffee and baked goods, and trust me, all will be forgiven.” The simplest trick she’d ever learned, really. In a crew of people who forget to eat or sleep because they’re raving workaholics, the woman with snacks gets any favor she wants. “We can even try to film that interview ourselves if you’d rather not deal with half the house trying to listen in.” The vineyards they’re driving through make a much prettier backdrop than the house anyway, and if Triss is more willing to talk without small mobs of people running around, which would make perfect sense, then not only will she get a better interview than she would in the car, but she has a perfect excuse for doing this. There! Tissaia won’t kill her! Her instincts may not be malfunctioning after all! Triss will keep smiling, which is not at all important but still nice!

“You’re amazing. Thanks, Sabrina. It really means a lot!” Triss is, indeed, still smiling. And it just stings a little bit, for some stupid reason. The pathological half-truths required for this job usually don’t leave such a bad taste in her mouth. Huh. Maybe the coffee creamer is just expired? It would make more sense than Triss having magical powers that make acting against her best interests cause chest pains. Right. She’ll yell at Duny to check expiration dates more carefully, and she’ll make sure to take her coffee black tomorrow just in case, and this will _stop being a problem._

She’s still reciting this little mantra to herself as they pull into the one, apparently singular shopping center that happens to exist out here. Sabrina has no idea how it stays afloat during the months that the show isn’t filming because she’s pretty certain hungry crew members are responsible for at least fifty percent of its revenue. She also has no idea how the baristas at the tiny café _still_ give her incredulous looks every time they hear exactly how many shots of espresso Tissaia takes in her coffee. They should know the drill by now. Or at least not give a fuck. She’s sick of being lectured on “health guidelines” and “store policy about energy shots.”

Triss all but bolts out of the car, and Sabrina doesn’t know whether to be offended that her driving is that terrifying, or just watch her frolic around a parking lot like it’s a meadow and wonder what goes on in that gorgeously optimistic head of hers. No one should look this happy while staring down burned coffee from this sort of shitty chain restaurant. No one.

Triss darts over to the driver’s side to open Sabrina’s door for her, which makes minimal sense because to the best of Sabrina’s knowledge the only time people do that is when they are being paid to act as a chauffeur or while on a date. She knows that she might be somewhat socially stunted— an all-girls private school will do that—but she’s quite flummoxed by how she’s supposed to respond right now. At least one “thank you” is probably involved.

“Let me help you. There’s no way you’re getting down without wiping out.” Sabrina glances down from the car to the ground and is forced to agree with this assessment. Somehow, even with all the times she’s gotten railed in the back seat of this car, she hasn’t noticed quite how extra Renfri had gotten with the lift kit, and she may as well be sitting in a monster truck. Fucking Renfri. She’d yell at her, but then she’d give the bitch more ammo for her constant short jokes, and that is unacceptable.

She reaches down and takes Triss’s hand, feeling a bit like a damsel in distress and hating every second. Even with Triss smiling up at her like this is just a regular Tuesday and helping people out of cars while holding their hand is just a totally normal thing to do. 

Smiling during filming. Ha. Next, she’ll be having little birds braid her hair or convincing Tissaia to stop terrorizing network representatives.

“...Thank you.” She really hates saying that. Really, really hates it. 

“You’re welcome. Now come on, you promised me hot chocolate.” Triss is still holding her hand. Triss doesn’t drop it as she starts walking towards the coffee shop, and Sabrina’s chest goes through six stages of potential cardiac arrest in the time it takes for her legs to start moving. What on earth is _wrong_ with her?

“...You actually drink that stuff?” Why? There isn’t even any caffeine in hot chocolate, just sugar and some other ingredients she sure exist but can’t name because the last time she ingested a liquid that wasn’t alcoholic or caffeinated, she was like, twelve.

“Okay, you drink things that I’m not sure even technically count as safe for human consumption, so you do _not_ get to judge!” Triss nudges her shoulder, and because she is a giant and Sabrina not perhaps at her most alert given her utterly appalling sleep schedule or lack thereof, it takes all of her coordination to not fall over into a heap and then immediately die of embarrassment. “Besides, they don’t put sprinkles on coffee.”

Sprinkles. Of course. Why hadn’t _she_ thought of that?

...Can she get sprinkles for the coffee cart on set? Not for Triss. In general. Maybe Jaskier likes them. Fuck.

“You realize that you are paying them, and can ask for fourteen espresso shots and an extra cup of whipped cream if you so choose?” She knows this because it happened. Season four, before Jaskier’s little coffee intervention had been staged. Dark times.

“...How has the doctor on set not banned you all from placing your own orders?” They step into the cozy space, all but smacked in the face with the smell of roasting coffee beans and baking pastries. Ah, how she’d missed civilization.

“Sheala is one of the worst offenders, so probably to avoid accusations of gross hypocrisy.” She marches up to the counter, prepared to do battle. This next bit relies on muscle memory and reciting orders without thinking about it too hard because otherwise there are far too many and she’s liable to forget something. The coffee zone is mandatory, and cannot be disturbed just because Triss is...Here. And herself. And being very distracting by doing those two things, somehow.

“Hi. I need twelve lattes, five with two extra shots, six with two, and one with ten. Fifteen bagels, every muffin you still have, five cappuccinos, one with chocolate, one with caramel, and one with six extra shots-”

“How are we going to carry all this?”

Right. That is a good question. Normally, she has several interns to act as sherpas and carry around her bribery. “...It’s going to take a while to make this. Obviously. We can just take it back to the car in stages.” There. That sounds normal. Sort of normal. Like it would work, anyway.

“Ma’am. This is going to take more than ‘a while.’” The poor soul who’d been unlucky enough to be manning the register during her appearance is sweating bullets, and she can’t help but feel slightly sorry for introducing someone else to the rampant stimulant abuse issue of their merry band of sleepless workaholics.

“We’ll grab a table then. And some hot chocolate for her. Sprinkles too, if you have them. Just—here.” She shoves her company card at the barista, more brusquely than she’d wanted. “Give yourself a fifty dollar tip, and take your time.” Because this is a lot. Not because she wants to spend more time with Triss in the tiny corner booth with incredibly childish drinks. She’s embarrassed to even _order_ something like that. She has a reputation, damn it!

She also has Triss wedged against her side as they do their best to squeeze into space clearly meant for one singular person having some indie writing fest. It’s the only table available, though, and she has no desire to stand around in these shoes, so they’ll just have to make due. Together. With Triss’s shampoo in her nose and her hand against Sabrina’s thigh. 

That part is admittedly nice. If she’s to have no personal space, Triss is the sort of woman to lose it to. 

“Here. I made your girlfriend’s drink first. Since you’re waiting here, I mean.” 

Girlfriend.

  
_Girlfriend?_

Shit. Shit. Shit! Error 404, response not found. 

“...Thank you.” Sabrina may be talking to their barista, but her eyes are on Triss’s face. Is she upset? Does Sabrina want her to be upset? Obviously not, but will she be easier to interview believably if she’s upset?

Triss does not appear to be upset. Not that she seems to get that way easily. The one time Sabrina has seen her close to angry is during the great mud tackling incident. Which was entirely justified, because if someone got mud on Sabrina’s dry-clean only shirts, she would throttle them. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any? I promise things that won’t give you heart palpitations are still good.” There is whipped cream on the tip of Triss’s nose. That’s...adorable. On anyone else it would be kind of gross, so she’s not sure what _witchcraft_ this is but it needs to _stop_.

“I’ll take your word for it, but I’ll still pass.”

Triss settles back into the booth, mug cradled in both hands like it’s something precious, and they fall into a semi-awkward silence. At work, this is the point where she’d be yelling to cut the cameras because the conversation was so stilted. Damnit. She has social skills! She has so many of them she has a job manipulating people into humiliating themselves! Why can’t she _speak?_ Tissaia would be so ashamed of her.

“Sabrina?”

“Yes?” 

“I know this probably is a silly question…”

Oh no. Oh _fuck_. 

Sabrina has a long and storied history with this phrase coming out of the mouths of her contestants. Usually, “silly” means “highly idiotic” and “question” means “statement that is going to make Tissaia blow her top.” Like this infamous “So you said we weren’t allowed on the show if we had boyfriends but I have a fiance” incident before the final four of season seven. The “It’s totally okay if I have an STD, right?” mess that occurred before the overnight dates in season two. She’s dealt with a _lot_ of stupid, okay? So she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

“There’s a shovel in the trunk of the car. No one has to know.”

Triss’s doe eyes widen even further than normal, staring at Sabrina like she’s an angry Kaedwanian bear, and now is the time to back away slowly. “...Just so you know, I want to hear the story behind that later. Whatever it is.” Sabrina nods mutely. Later is good. Later means she has some time to figure out a polite way to say “My on-set booty call is probably Tissaia’s hitwoman and would absolutely help me hide a body.” Wonderful. Love that! “The question was whose car I just helped you steal. Should I make them cookies or something?”

“Who says we stole it?” Really, if Renfri’s keys are that easy to swipe because most people are too terrified of her to take them, then that’s not Sabrina’s fault or problem!

“I do. There’s no way you bought a car too tall for you to climb out of.” 

...That is a very good point. Smart _and_ adorable. She really is perfect bachelorette material. Perfect in general, really, except for her taste in men. “It’s Renfri’s. She won’t mind.” Probably. And if she does, then Sabrina will buy her more terrifying looking knives off the dark web and all will be forgiven. “You’re far less upset about the idea of being an accessory to a crime than I’d expected.” She kind of thought Triss would at least be angry about Sabrina “borrowing” the jeep. She seems quite serene, however, teeth digging into the skin of her lip in a way that makes Sabrina want to run her tongue along the swollen skin.

“ _I didn’t think you actually stole it._ It’s an expression! Are you telling me we _stole a car?_ ”

Well. There it is. Fuck. “I didn’t tell you! You guessed!”

“That isn’t any better!” 

Right. Damage control time. “We didn’t _steal it_ steal it. I didn’t _ask_ to borrow it, true, and it’s not company property, but technically if someone hides weed in your suitcase during one of Tissaia’s ‘random’ drug tests then they forfeit the right to me respecting their private property.” 

“..I’m sorry. _What?_ ”

It is at this point that Sabrina realizes that every time she opens her mouth, things get worse. It’s a very unfamiliar sensation, and she doesn’t particularly care for it.

“Okay. So should I just assume we aren’t in trouble, and your friends are weird?”

“Please.” Her friends are fucking insane, to be clear. Completely balls to the wall nuts. “I apologize for dragging you into the quagmire of crazy.” She’s not referring to her friends. She should be, but at this moment she can feel the guilt tugging at her again, and as the words pass her lips she can’t quite help thinking about next year’s promotional posters with Triss’s naively charming smile plastered all over them. That, she is truly sorry for.

“Sabrina? I’m friends with Yennefer. I can handle crazy.” 

“You certainly can. Although in the case of Ashley, you shouldn’t have to. I wish I could make sure you’re not on the same dates from now on, but…” The point of group dates is they involve pretty much everyone. She can’t really rewrite the show just for Triss. But damn if she doesn’t want to for a few seconds before she realizes she’s _feeling things_ again and crushes whatever rogue thought is causing that mess with an iron fist.

“Thank you. It means a lot, you sticking up for me.” Triss leans a little closer, cheek against Sabrina’s hair, and a small insurrection of butterflies spring up in Sabrina’s stomach.

Scratch that. Fuck butterflies. These are more like goddamned bats. A murder of heinous crows. A small platoon of pissed-off geese. Something flappy and big and annoying that she can’t squish. 

“Happy to. You deserve a friend here.” A friend. Just a friend. A fake friend with an agenda, in Sabrina’s case, but still. _Just a friend._ People do not kiss their friends on the mouth, and therefore she needs to stop wanting to do that. Before Tissaia finds out and assigns her to manage Ashley for not being objective with their star.

“Uh, order for Sabrina? Part one, anyway. Of ten. I’m so sorry.”

She has never felt more gratitude for a service worker, or possibly anyone. No more feelings. No feelings while holding hot coffee! Those are the rules!

“Shall we? Maybe we can find a way to shove all this in the trunk or something”

“And then teach the car to fly so we don’t hit any potholes? Sabrina, this is going to spill everywhere.”

It sure is! That’ll teach Renfri to tease her about having...Not feelings. She doesn’t have feelings for Triss. Just...hormones. Renfri needs to stay out of those for a bit!

“Sounds like a plan. Don’t worry about the car. Let me handle all the stupid stuff, okay? Just...think about what you want to say in this interview.” That’s what Sabrina should be thinking about, what she wants Triss to say in this interview. Not the way the corners of her eyes crinkle up when she smiles or the dimples on her cheeks. None of that bullshit. She definitely shouldn't be thinking about how to convince her to quit and run away while she still can. 

That would be treason. That would ruin her entire fucking career. 

The part of her brain in charge of self-destructive fantasies and her roulette wheel of a moral compass doesn’t seem to care. 

Fuck.

* * *

  
  


When dear Sabrina returns to the set with actual coffee and bagels that aren’t several days old, she is heralded as a conquering hero. 

When she announces that by the way, she managed to film Triss in a flower crown in the middle of a vineyard accusing Ashley of caring more about winning than doing the right thing? Bam. Tissaia’s favorite person for the rest of the day.

Or, she would be if Rita didn’t exist. Obviously, she will be the favorite forever, but she’s happy Tissaia is being nicer to her adoptive child whom she refuses to admit she adopted. It’s hysterical. 

So is the elimination ceremony. One of the boring ones who didn’t get adopted by the audience or have drama fast enough to be entertaining gets sent home after that two-person date, and Rita forgets her name but it was the one who _didn’t_ commit some light arson and assault in the living room, which is no shock whatsoever. Arson is always a plus around here, as long as it doesn’t threaten her booze. The funny bit is when one of the Ashleys, who will henceforth be known as Mud-Pit Ashley, doesn’t go home.

Of course she doesn’t. Tissaia would never let Geralt get rid of her so soon. But evidently, a good number of the other girls do not know about this and want an explanation. They swarm poor Geralt like a flock of pissed-off pigeons waiting for birdseed. The man looks petrified. 

Mud Pit Ashley decides that this attack on her honor cannot stand, and Rita is distracted from going over the inventory of all the furniture brought back to the mansion vs. lost in transport from the stolen date with Geralt once the woman decides, in all her limited wisdom, to announce that Triss is attempting to turn people against her and ought to be ashamed of herself.

There are several issues with this. The first is that Triss did no such thing. The crew did, through Triss, who has no idea she’s being used as a symbolic victim and hopefully won’t find out until she’s signed the bachelorette contract. The second issue is that Triss has proved to be rather athletic, and so running at her like a pole vaulter approaching the mark and attempting to jump on the young woman’s back is...Not suggested. Delightful, and going to make wonderful prime-time footage, but a truly terrible idea.

Triss looks quite shocked at this turn of events. To her credit, she doesn’t fall, and while the girls who are safe flee with their precious roses, Triss remains in place as Mud-Pit Ashely decides to try and grab her by her hair. 

Whether or not Triss was going to depart from her understanding, pacifistic demeanor at this new transgression will never be known. Because somehow, Yennefer Vengerberg has acquired a folding chair.

“Oh my god. I knew she grew up in the middle of nowhere, but how much pro wrestling did her family _watch?_ ” Sheala plops a bucket of popcorn in her lap, and Rita sighs happily. Nothing quite like a two-dollar dinner and a show with a beautiful woman. 

“Enough, clearly. Tissaia, you seeing this? Please tell me we’re recording it.”

“From three different angles, dear.” The walkie at her shoulder crackles. One of these days, Rita will drag Tissaia away from her screens and have her watch this in person. Today is not that day. Today _is_ the day Yennefer nominated herself as Triss’s official bodyguard, smacking Ashley in the skull with a plastic chair like it’s as easy as swatting a particularly lethargic mosquito with a rolled up newspaper. Ashley does not seem pleased, releasing Triss to chase Yennefer down and tripping over her own dress in the process.

Yennefer is eager to be pursued, waving her weapon with glee and taking a sweeping bow while Ashley clambers to her feet. Camera one zooms in, no doubt because this both hits their drama and cleavage quota for the evening. Ashley charges like an angry bull, and instead of sidestepping for the woman to sail forward comically and lose her footing like Kalis, Yennefer brings the chair back like she’s playing a game of baseball.

Time slows. Rita could not think of anything better than one contestant attempting to give the other a concussion with a folding chair. She’s all but vibrating in her seat, Sheala’s face buried in her shoulder as she attempts not to succumb to the giggles. “Please use your influence with Tissaia to keep me from having to give her anger management counseling.”

“I heard that, doctor. And trust me, I have no desire to curtail this.” Tissaia might not, but Triss? Triss grabs the chair with both hands and pulls, and Yennefer is so shocked by someone stopping her from being dramatic that she manages to confiscate it. To everyone’s grief except possibly Ashley’s, who isn’t about to break her rotten streak to say thank you.

“Both of you stop it! You’re behaving like, well, like horrible reality show contestants!” Ding ding ding! We have a winner! They are behaving like _ideal_ reality show contestants, and Rita could not be more entertained. 

Yennefer looks somewhat abashed by her friend’s reappearance. Which is like, cute, but kind of hurting their entertainment factor. Luckily, Ashley takes no heed of this very valid warning and _plows_ into Yennefer at full speed, who falls into Triss, and then they all go down in a flailing pile of limbs and cursing.

“Should we stop them?”

“Fuck that.” Rita has an idea. A terrible, awful idea. The kind of idea that is the reason her unofficial title is “Troublemaker In Chief.” “Just wait here. If it looks like Triss or Yennefer is about to be actually damaged, throw Ashley over your shoulder and walk away. I know you can do that.” She _has_ done that, almost every time Rita has gotten too drunk to walk in heels, and it is insanely hot. While that might damage the footage, it’s a good emergency measure while Rita darts off to where Geralt and Jaskier have secluded themselves. There’s a hill behind the house that the girls like to run up and down for exercise, and after filming, nine times out of ten you can find the two of them here, Geralt hiding from the cameras all over the house and Jaskier all too happy to seize the opportunity to talk at him. Sure enough, there they are. Geralt has abandoned yet another suit jacket, glowering up at the interruption. He doesn’t hate her, she knows, but she’s ruining his precious alone time.

“So your future wife, the future bachelorette, and your date tonight are having a massive catfight and we think someone might get hurt.”  
  


“Fuck.” Yeah. Fuck sums it up if one of them gets concussed enough to leave before Tissaia is ready to let them go.

“Is there any way you could come and shame them into not murdering each other? Just stand there and look annoyed. You’re already doing it!” Geralt glares at her but marches off to get involved just like always. It’s as sure as taxes being confusing, or vodquila fucking you up. Geralt Rivia has to get involved. Always.

That means Rita gets to return to her seat, regain custody of the popcorn, and watch as Geralt awkwardly clears his throat and scuffs his feet in the hopes that the writhing pile of angry women will untangle and leave.

He is ignored. Yennefer and Ashley seem quite intent on murdering each other, and Triss seems equally invested in stopping them, so no such ceasefire seems imminently forthcoming. 

Instead of attempting to use his words, because that is not Geralt’s style at all, he marches forward, picks up Ashley like she weighs less than Yennefer’s folding chair, and forcibly escorts her to the front door. He then looks back at Yennefer and Triss as if deciding what the hell he’s supposed to say to them. Rita would assume “sorry I had to keep a lunatic because the EP scares us all” is not something that will ever come out of his mouth. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Yennefer is the first to recover and shoot her mouth off. Rita can hear Tissaia hollering for a close up on Geralt’s face on the all-staff channel, probably all but frothing at the mouth. To the best of Rita’s knowledge, asking the bachelor what is wrong with him simply isn’t _done._ Ever. “This is the second time she’s attacked Triss _today_. And you keep her. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s insane! And I’m the one who decided to hit her with a fucking folding chair so that’s saying something!”

She’s not wrong. Like. Really not wrong, and _wow_ Geralt is going to look like a dick. 

“Fuck.” Yup! Going to have to censor that! Oh, it is a good damn episode. Three fights, a fire, and now the world’s most awkward episode of therapist-free couple’s therapy. Drinks are on Tissaia! “Er. Right. Is she okay?”

“Good of you to ask that now. What were you even thinking?” She points towards Geralt, eyes flashing. She looks for all the world like a pissed-off battle mage from the old legends about to summon a goddamned fire tornado on Geralt’s ass. Rita loves this chick!

“Yenna! I’m fine. Ashley is just... A bit aggressive. And high-strung. But we’re all under a lot of stress right now, including Geralt. Let’s just...Go back inside. Get cleaned up. I bet I could mend your dress. I brought a sewing kit. It’ll look good as new, I promise.” Sure enough, Yennefer’s dress has acquired a thigh-slit that wasn’t there before. Triss really is a saint, and praise the gods for her, because the audience can only take so much screaming before they’re desensitized to it or they start asking why Yennefer doesn’t just quit. And she can’t quit. She is carrying the drama portion of the show right now!

“Fine. Maybe someone’s seen fit to shoot her in the ass with one of Geralt’s tranquilizer darts by now.” Yennefer takes Triss’s hand and they walk off together, as female friendship prevails over boy drama. Or something to that effect. It’s Jaskier’s job to provide stupid narration like that, but she’s pretty sure that’s the direction they’re going to go. The show keeps rightfully being accused of being anti-feminist, so the network gods will insist. No matter how much everyone on the crew cringes over how tone-deaf that is. 

Geralt watches them go. He doesn’t chase them down to apologize, which is probably what he should be doing, because Tissaia is going to make him anyway so it may as well be spontaneous and unscripted for minimal embarrassment. But Geralt doesn’t think like that. Hell, most people don’t. Rita can just barely keep up, relying more on her knowledge of Tissaia’s habits than anything else, so Geralt hasn’t got a chance. 

“Rita and Sheala. War room, now. And excellent job getting him over there.” 

“...Sure, Tissaia. What’s the emergency?” 

“Oh, no emergency. I just figured you’d be upset if you missed the party that someone has apparently decided to throw.” The “and I’m in too good a mood to stop” goes unsaid. Well. She does love an opportunity to drink until she loves everyone and feels the urge to dance on tables.

“Be right there.” She turns to Sheala, who seems to be taking _notes_ on what just happened like a boring person. “Race you!”

She knows she’ll lose, even with the copious head start Sheala is giving her. But if that’s what it takes to make her actually come and be social, and since even Tissaia is coming she has no excuse, then Rita is happy to run as many goddamned races in heels as the good doctor wants. Besides, Sheala’s sexy when she’s all out of breath and smug.


	5. Conspiracies. Conspiracies everywhere.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss makes a peace offering. Yennefer finds a side-hustle. Jaskier mopes, and Sabrina would like everyone to know she is not in love with Triss Merigold.

It is a very awkward two days before any more dates occur. Eventually, Triss can’t take the tension. Every time she or Yennefer leave their room, people are glaring like it’s their fault things are weird. And granted, no one but Kalis will talk to the Ashley that tackled her, so they’re not the only ones in an uncomfortable social situation, but still. 

Triss didn’t  _ ask  _ to be tackled twice in one day! She also, for the record, didn’t ask Yennefer to beat up her assailant and then scream at Geralt. She actually would have preferred it if Yennefer ran and grabbed security, but she now knows that this is just the sort of impulsive, temperamental creature that Yennefer is and to expect that sort of level headed decision from her would be about as ridiculous as her giving up drinking. 

It was sweet, really, Yennefer trying to protect her. Very sweet. She’d asked why and gotten a mumbled “you remind me of my little sister but nicer,” and Triss had the good sense not to press the matter further. 

Yennefer may be lovely, but their self-imposed pseudo-quarantine made Triss feel very confined. Enough sitting in their room and sulking! She’s here, and she may as well make friends! She didn’t  _ just  _ come here for a man, after all!

That said, the whole making friends thing is going to have to wait. It is, after all, three am, and very few people want to clear the air of dirty laundry and hoist a more amiable flag before noon. But she can’t sleep with how full her head is, and she has been trying for hours, so screw it, she is going to stress-bake. It’s her go-to method of getting rid of bad thoughts, and kneading dough is a better outlet for aggression than smacking other people or her plants, who she swears wilt around built-up negative energy. It seems like they die every time she has a bad date. That, or she’s already sad so her brain is simply more attuned to the perception of additional upsetting things.

Anyway. The kitchen is empty, though a mess because no one here is one hundred percent focused on cleaning with Geralt to woo. And she gets it, even if the congealed remains of someone’s attempt at sourdough sit abandoned on the best section of the granite countertops. Still, it takes a lot of self-control to only wipe down the counter space she needs instead of deep cleaning everything. That’s not her job, and while being nice to others is good, she knows she needs to stop being a doormat. 

The familiar smell of vanilla and flour is comforting. She hums to herself as she works, stirring the chocolate chips into the batter as the oven pre-heats. She does owe Sabrina a lot of baked goods at this point. She seems so stressed all the time, almost jumping every time Tissaia yells for her on her walkie. And she gets it because Tissaia is very intimidating. Having her as a boss must be an experience.

“Triss? What’re you doing?”

Yennefer stands in the doorway to the kitchen, still in her pajamas, and Triss flushes. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you!” She’d been  _ so  _ careful. Damn it!

“You didn’t. Just...sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night. Is that cookie dough?” Yennefer grabs a spoon and stares longingly at the mixture. “Is this for someone, or....?”

It is for someone. But that’s no reason not to share! “Go ahead. They’re for Sabrina, as a thank you. I can’t  _ buy  _ her anything here, but everyone likes cookies, right?” A new idea occurs to her. “Should I make some for Geralt too? As a peace offering?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, but the smile on her face is warm rather than mocking. “He doesn’t need an apology, Triss. You didn’t do anything wrong. But why are you baking cookies for Sabrina?”

How to explain her strange relationship with the producer? Would Yennefer think she was cheating, continuing to wake up early, and stay by the pool just in case Sabrina wanted a quick chat? She hadn’t gotten anything that could be insider information since the disastrous date, but Sabrina was usually good for idle talk and crew gossip. She was funny, and actually willing to talk to Triss even after all the drama she’d been part of, and Triss just liked her.

“She may have warned me about the obstacle course. Or at least, what I shouldn’t wear to it. And she didn’t make me ride back with everyone after…” She waves the whisk about, trying to think of any way to encapsulate the first Ashley incident. 

“Makes sense. Maybe she’s not such a raging bitch.” Triss laughs because it feels like the right thing to do. She doesn’t consider Sabrina a bitch at all. Forceful, certainly, and perhaps a bit aggressively goal-oriented, but so was Yennefer. And she liked both of them, so she wasn’t going to take sides. “Hey, think if there’s any extra could I take them? I have my own...peace offering to make.” 

Triss grins, immediately making the calculations to double this recipe. The ingredients are free, after all. “Sure, if you’ll help me spoon them out without eating all the dough. Are they for Ashley?” Or maybe  _ Yennefer  _ feels like she should be the one apologizing to Geralt for her outburst. Triss wouldn’t suggest it to her, because she will admit his behavior wasn’t great even if she’d bet it wasn’t purely his fault, but if Yennefer did want to eat crow then Triss was fully on board. Even if they’re technically both competing for his favor. It’s confusing and a little unsettling if she thinks too hard about it, so she’s just going to focus on the task at hand. Repeat the old mantra: make your bed in the morning, fold the clean sheets, get very good at pretending not to notice things, empty the laundry basket, wish it was your brain. What isn’t confusing is that Yennefer is her friend and seems against apologies as a matter of principle, so Triss is honor-bound to help!

“She doesn’t deserve an apology. Another chair to the face, maybe. They’re for Tissaia. She seemed to be having a shit week. And like you said, everyone likes cookies.” If there’s an exception to that rule, it would be their executive producer, because she seems more machine than woman, but Triss will defer to Yennefer’s judgment on that.

“...Do I smell cookie dough?”

“Hi, Anica! You do! Want some?” The more the merrier, right? And if this is how she builds goodwill in this house, she will be very happy with that.

“Yes, please. You’re a saint.” Triss beams, fetching yet more sugar. Maybe she should just make enough for everyone? Would that be a good idea?

By the time five am rolls around, Triss has made a batch of cookies for Sabrina, one for Yennefer to share with Tissaia, and five more for a small crowd of her housemates and hungry crew members. Kiera had smuggled in several bottles of top-shelf liquor in her suitcase, and while Triss isn’t keen on having booze for breakfast, many others choose to partake, and anyone who wasn’t already in the kitchen is woken up by the resulting rowdiness. She’s never been proposed to for her baking before, but after one of the cameramen scarfs down six cookies in rapid succession and drops to one knee to the delight of the cheering throng, Triss is a blushing, if sleepy, mess. But the cookies are still warm, and it’s time to meet Sabrina, so she manages to extricate herself from the raucous merry-making after many thank-yous and compliments. She’s smiling wider than she has since she stepped out of the limo, and Geralt wasn’t even the cause!

Sabrina dismisses her small group of minions whose jobs Triss can’t even identify despite having now spent several weeks on set the moment Triss catches her eye, strutting over to “their” lounge chairs with a smile. “Well, aren’t you glowing this morning? Did Geralt sneak into your room? Do I hear wedding bells?”

Triss breaks into peals of laughter at the thought. Geralt sneaking into her room? They barely know each other! “No, but I don’t think everyone hates me anymore!” Oh, there are a few holdouts, surely, but she likes her standing today much better than yesterday’s, and that’s all that matters.

“Hating you? Not physically possible, darling.” Triss can’t help but preen a bit under the compliment, her tongue tying itself in knots before she can even begin to consider an appropriate response. She never knows how to react to the things Sabrina says. Ever. 

“These are for you!” She thrusts the plate of cookies forward like an offering to a benevolent god. Please let her like them. Please let Triss not make a fool of herself.

“Maybe you should start planning that wedding after all. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I ate anything that didn’t come out of plastic?” Ha! A wedding! With her and Sabrina! That’s a thought.

Not a bad one, admittedly. Sabrina is radiant, even this early in the morning when most sane people have barely rolled out of bed. She seems to glow in the early strands of sunlight, the light catching those dark eyelashes, long enough to cast shadows on her cheeks even now when the sun has barely crested. The pleased groan as she takes a bite of one of Triss’s cookies is practically obscene, and if Triss wasn’t blushing before, she sure as hell is now. But still. Marrying Sabrina. Totally a crazy idea! They barely know each other, and she’s here for Geralt, who she also barely knows, but at least she’s certain he’s interested in women. He wouldn’t be here dating fourteen of them right now if he weren’t!

“I’m glad you like them. I wanted to thank you for everything. I know you’re technically bending the rules to help me, and it was insanely kind of you to take me out after that date. It means a lot.”

“You deserved a day out, and since Geralt wasn’t an option, I was happy to replace him.” 

She was, admittedly, a delightful replacement. Even if her caffeine habit is terrifying and she sort of steals cars.

“Just accept the compliment, Sabrina!” She’s not sure what inspires her to lean over and poke the other woman firmly in the sternum to add a bit of emphasis to the command, but it draws them very close together all of the sudden. She can see a faint trace of chocolate smeared on Sabrina’s bottom lip and is suddenly confronted with the bizarre urge to kiss it away. Which would, again, be utterly insane because for all she knows Sabrina is straight. Or taken. Or both!

“As you wish, babe. Now, it is five am, and there will not be a date card until one.  _ So go back to sleep _ .”

Triss yawns, fully aware that no doctor would recommend her current sleep schedule, and nods. Yeah, going back to sleep is a good idea. She’s so comfy on this chair. Maybe she can just shut her eyes, and...

“Triss. Triss? Oh, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t mean you should go to sleep  _ here _ . Hey!” 

“Mmmm?” Sabrina has a nice voice, even when she’s yelling at people. Especially when she’s yelling at people. All the time. 

“You need to get up. Open your eyes, oh my  _ gods _ .” Triss opens them. Sabrina is leaning over her like she’s about to administer CPR, and Triss may take a left turn at “sleepy and delirious” and get utterly lost staring into her eyes instead of ending up anywhere near “awake and mobile.” Sabrina’s eyes are narrowed, and she places her hand on Triss’s forehead like she’s checking for a fever. She’s got calluses on her fingers that Triss desperately wants to ask about, but instead, all she does is arch into the touch. This is nice. Sabrina is just amazing. “Are you certain you’re not concussed? Because I will drive you to the hospital right now.”

“M’not concussed. You’re warm…” She really is. And Triss’s pajamas, which she is still wearing because she totally forgot to change, are not appropriate to wear outside in fall at sunrise. Why didn’t she put on a coat? That was dumb. Maybe if she asks nicely Sabrina will lay on her like a blanket...

“Fantastic. You have twenty seconds to stand up before I call Sheala. She’s a doctor, I think. She has a title, anyway, and she can definitely lift you. So. Up! Let’s go, Triss!”

Can Sabrina lift her? Or maybe Geralt? That sounds fun! She blinks hard, trying to chase away the cobwebs in her head and general desire to stay in this lounge chair until noon. Fine. Sleeping. Sleep is good. 

With that happy thought and a great deal of shoving from Sabrina, she manages to get into a standing position and lurch forward like a zombie. Everything is going splendidly, or at least, she’s managing to move in the general direction of the house while fully upright, until she stumbles over her own feet and goes careening forward like an uninspected carnival tilt-a-whirl. That’s less excellent. The ground pitches towards her skull until something wedges itself under her shoulder. 

She briefly looks down to notice Sabrina’s small frame under her arm. Huh. When did she get there? Sabrina is rolling her eyes at her like she can read minds and thinks Triss is being ridiculous as she all but drags her back to the room. It must be quite a funny visual, and one she’d usually associate with college students hauling themselves home after a night out, not late-night baking and accidental naps. Well, her life is weird these days. Exceptionally weird. 

* * *

Yennefer does not find out Triss fell asleep on Satan The Producer and was then escorted home to crash until they all assemble to read the little cards that are, now that she thinks about it, far too small to hold everyone on the date’s names because she is not one for sitting around the campfire braiding other people’s hair, or whatever other vaguely condescending terms there are for bonding with a small mob of other women. There’s too many of them for her to keep tabs on, and she’s tired, and the cookies are still warm so she’s taking her share and hightailing her ass to Tissaia’s office. Somehow, she has a feeling she’ll be there. Even at six am. Tissaia seems like the sort of woman to never leave unless forcibly picked up and dragged home.

Sure enough, the lights are on and the door is shut, but that didn’t stop Yennefer last time and it sure as hell isn’t stopping her now when there’s a beautiful woman who owes her a shit ton of money on the other side. She has her priorities straight, Tissaia’s cheekbones and staring at them come first, but the buffer between her and post-show homelessness is a  _ very  _ nice bonus!

“Congratulations. I thought you’d be beating down my door yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, you looked like you were having a shit day and needed a nap. And maybe a bottle of vodka.” Drunk Tissaia might be fun. Maybe she’d be a bit less prickly and ready to bite people’s heads off for merely daring to exist near her. Though people and close proximity to them does usually suck. If Yennefer could get an office and terrorize her customers into avoiding it while still collecting a paycheck, she would too. “I come bearing gifts. Do you eat? I’m not sure about the dietary habits of androids.” Tissaia rolls her eyes but takes the plate, inspecting the cookies suspiciously. Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I didn’t poison them. See?”

She takes a cookie and stuffs it into her mouth. It’s a horrible display of manners, but once she swallows without beginning to froth at the mouth or just keeling over dead, Tissaia seems satisfied. “Wonderful. And I believe this is yours. One catfight, one visit from the firefighters. Count it if you wish.” Tissaia passes over an envelope stuffed with cash like it’s less interesting than the food, and Yennefer has to use every shred of her willpower not to grab it while muttering about “her precious.” This is—This is two thousand dollars for one day’s work that she really liked doing. And her boss is gorgeous. And she’s technically on vacation for the sole purpose of making out with a slightly-less-hot man who seems terrified of her. She may be having the greatest week ever.

“So. Is this, like, an ongoing offer? Because I can totally trick someone into lighting more fires.” She will do a lot of things, at this point. Ashley has it coming, and if Triss won’t allow Yennefer another physical brawl, then making sure she has a very bad day for money is also acceptable. 

Tissaia smiles at her, like actually smiles, and granted, it may be so tiny it’s barely there, but if she can convince someone who Sabrina both worships and fears in equal measure to like her, surely it’s a laudable victory. Take that! “This is, indeed, an ongoing offer. However, should it be discovered by anyone, cast or crew, consider all deals made in this office null and void.” Okay. Secret. She can handle secrets. 

Tissaia turns back to her laptop and presses a few keys. Yennefer can hear the familiar shouting of her elimination ceremony smackdown, and then the soft whirr as the footage rewinds. More than a little curious as to how the incident looked from the outside, Yennefer stands behind Tissaia’s desk to watch over her shoulder. This is probably not something Tissaia would ever consider in the realm of acceptable behavior, but when has Yennefer ever cared about that?

“You may want to make your exit. I doubt this will entertain you much more than it will our audience.” When Yennefer looks away from the intricate coils of Tissaia’s hair to the screen, it shows a montage of Geralt’s date with Ashley. She’s not nearly as...exciting when she’s not trying to murder people. Instead, she clings to Geralt’s arm and giggles at everything he says. Yennefer has to fight the urge to yawn as she talks about how much she just  _ loves  _ traveling and wouldn’t it be fun to see the world together?   
  
Yennefer would rather go fucking blind than go see anything with this woman. Tissaia was right, this footage is garbage. But leaving would mean admitting that, so she decides to watch Tissaia instead.

Her face is less than expressive, perfectly schooled into a neutral mask as Geralt stubbornly persists in his efforts to look at literally anything other than his date. There’s a slight narrowing of Ashley 1’s eyes when she rests a hand on his chest and he subtly shakes her off. Poor Geralt might’ve risked getting torn a new one for that, but Yennefer can’t say she blames him.

“How the hell is he going to justify keeping her?” She’s laughing when she asks because of  _ course  _ Geralt wouldn’t want to keep her or, Yennefer assumes, most of them if really given the choice. Maybe not any of them, frankly. 

“That is going to present something of a problem. While it appears the continent is aware that these programs are...influenced by the network, it wouldn’t do to be  _ this  _ glaringly obvious about it. I had hoped that the entire incident could be blamed on the awkwardness borne of intoxicating physical attraction, but it appears that is not even remotely feasible.” 

Uh, yeah. Geralt couldn’t look less like he wanted to jump her bones if he  _ tried.  _ There was more chemistry between  _ Triss  _ and this chick!

Just then, Yennefer gets a terrible, wonderful idea that ironically may be entirely caused by “awkwardness borne of physical attraction.” Or, in other words, her suddenly all-consuming desire to make Tissaia smile again. 

“What if we just made it look like Molly was even more nuts than Ashley and that’s why he got rid of her? I’m sure the show has pulled that shit before.” Oddly desperate to impress, Yennefer is almost tempted to channel her professor in the third of a semester she had spent in a community college video editing course and start babbling about ways to doctor the footage, the feeling entirely foreign to her and not altogether pleasant. It would be hard to make Molly look any crazier than Ashley or that other one who Yennefer sort of provoked into committing arson, sure, but that’s why lying and people more talented than her in videography exist!

Tissaia sighs, a strained, irritated thing, and Yennefer realizes that perhaps she sounds like she’s trying to tell the boss how to do her job and is walking on very thin ice.

“Making a contestant who appears to have split her time between knitting and sighing over a magazine spread of Mr. Rivia seem unstable would require us to either produce footage of her that does not exist, or manufacture interviews with the rest of the cast in which they are willing to insist that she was...unsuitable to continue on. Unless you are willing to lie on camera—Oh. Well. That is a thought.”

Yennefer is willing to do a lot of things on camera as long as they’re for money, many more if Tissaia was the one asking. “I’m not going to tell the world she’s insane. But the ‘sighing dreamily over shirtless photos of Geralt’ thing is creepy. Er, was creepy. And she was talking about baby names. No guy wants to think about how the kids would look on a first date, right?” She knows  _ she  _ would be alarmed by that. Like, “ready to call the cops” levels of alarmed. So while a  _ lot  _ of people in this house seem guilty of the same sins, it’s time to throw Molly under the bus a bit. 

“And you would be amenable to describing this...potentially overbearing eagerness on camera, using the highest echelon of your overdramatic tendencies?”

Yennefer, always willing to push her luck, hops up on Tissaia’s desk with a toothy grin and nods. “As long as I get another envelope of cash, sure. They’ll need to give me an Academy Award. There. You have an explanation for keeping the group nut job. You may now unclench. Seriously, that can’t be healthy.” Tissaia really is stiff as a wooden board. It seems to just be her default state. There’s either a masseuse on-site for when that gets unbearable, or she’s just constantly sore as fuck. It makes sense because running this program appears to involve a lot of bullshit and hand-holding of the idiots working on it, but  _ still _ . Triss would probably have some things to say about the levels of self-care not happening over here. 

“How do you know she’s the group nut job?” Tissaia raises one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow and Yennefer gasps. Did Tissaia just make a  _ joke? On purpose?  _

“Is she not? Is it Kalis?” 

“Kalis is perhaps a bully and an entitled headache, but no, she passed her psychological evaluation.” The insinuation that they let someone who  _ didn’t  _ pass on the show makes Yennefer very, very curious. Riling up that person could net her a lot of money. She needs to find them before Geralt kicks them off. Right after she leaves this office, of course, which could be a while. She’s having fun talking about something other than the dates, Geralt, or everyone’s hometown and various other asinine small talk options such as star sign, favorite food, and worst date— scratch that, worst date talk had netted some surprisingly tolerable conversation, though the topic simply couldn’t last forever. Triss is the only person she’s moved beyond small talk with, and she tries too hard to be nice for a proper bitching session, although she’s still rather delightful all the same.

“How about...Pavetta?” There’s definitely something  _ weird  _ about the bleach-blonde Cintran. She cries more than the average soap opera character, and she keeps disappearing. So, you know. Probably worth a little research.

“Unless you define nutcase as emotional and possessing more resentment for her mother than is healthy, then no.” Tissaia is smirking, just a bit, and Yennefer is starting to feel like mocking her contestants might be a smidge cathartic for her. It’s kind of cute, in the way a mountain lion stalking a hiker can be cute. Yennefer almost has the urge to pretend this is some girly “drink mimosas and gossip about the neighbors” thing like they have on TV. They’d gotten four channels at home, but sometimes they’d shown reruns of shows about glamorous women cheating on their husbands and making fun of each other. Yennefer had just wanted their clothes. They looked like they actually fit properly.

“Is it Kiera?” That girl seems a bit...off. Mostly in an ‘I’m high as a kite at all times’ sort of way, but also there’s a pair of brass knuckles in her bag and Yennefer would like to determine if her safety is at risk. 

“...Sheala did mention something about her wanting to put bear traps in the woods to capture...something? Or someone. She seems to believe there is some sort of intruder or ghost in the woods, and they’ve been stealing her alcohol. I don’t know what to tell you about that. We did assume the token ‘smart one’—after all, she is a biomedical scientist— wouldn’t be the show lunatic.”

Well. That’s...reassuring. Sort of. At least she doesn’t need to worry about Kiera damaging her face, which is absolutely one of her best assets. If her little substance habit has her tripping, maybe that can go hilariously wrong on camera. 

Because Tissaia looks like she needs a laugh, Yennefer’s next guess is designed to be ridiculous. “What about Triss? Is she too nice to be true? Should I watch my back?”

“Not from her. However, if you don’t get more subtle about your ability to handle our leading man, then you’d best expect...reprisal from your housemates. Excellent job on that, by the way. Keep using whatever it is, and he might show an actual emotion on camera.” 

“Good looks and charm?” She twirls a runaway strand of hair around her finger, fluttering her eyelashes at Tissaia. It’s supposed to be a joke. She would never stoop to being so, well,  _ bubbly _ .

Tissaia stares at her before shaking her head and huffing at Yennefer’s ridiculousness. “...Mmm. Well, whatever it is, it appears to be working for you.” Her new partner in crime suddenly has eyes only for her monitor, and Yennefer freezes. Has she managed to fluster her boss? Is that what’s happening here? 

“Is it working for  _ you _ ?” Yennefer leans forward a bit, subtly tugging her top down her chest because what are boundaries when there’s potential fun to be had?

“You’re not nearly as irresistible as you think you are. So no.” 

Any reasonable person would have left it at that before offending the walking ATM they’d discovered. Yennefer is not, to her regret, always a reasonable person, and she can’t back down from someone telling her that she can’t do something to save her life. So fine. She’s just going to woo Geralt  _ and  _ the hot bitch in charge now, just to prove she can. And no one will be able to stop her, so there!

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered. Any hints for me on what’s happening today? I may as well be able to plan ahead a bit unless you’d like another highlight reel of Ashley and for the audience to fall asleep.” 

“I am not—Right. Keep Triss on camera, if possible. People like her. And don’t shove anyone off a cliff. Legal doesn’t need the additional stress.”

A cliff? Are there going to be cliffs? “Anything for you, I suppose,” she purrs, hopping off of Tissaia’s desk because quitting while you’re ahead is a skill Yennefer struggles with but now is definitely the time to do so. “If anyone falls by accident, don’t look at me.”

“I doubt anyone could look anywhere else.” Tissaia seems to realize the second meaning to what she’s just said and decides the best way of dealing with the fallout is to open the newspaper she’s reading and hold it between them like a riot shield. This strategy makes no fucking sense to Yennefer. Is she trying to prevent herself from staring at Yennefer’s tits, or is the face she’s making right now that embarrassing? What is  _ with  _ this woman? It’s kind of cute, in a ridiculous, “How are you so good at being a manipulative bitch except when cornered by someone who isn’t afraid of you” kind of way, but also really fucking weird. “I believe you have a date card to prepare for, Yennefer.”

She takes the dismissal for what it is, vowing to find a reason to come back as soon as possible. That probably means more stunts on camera, because another envelope would be lovely. The one in her hand makes her feel a bit like skipping like a lunatic, so yes, more, please.

Tormenting the ice woman in an attempt to alleviate her own boredom is just a bonus.

* * *

  
  


Jaskier is beginning to wonder if Tissaia, in her traditional episode three caffeine crash, decided to let Geralt plan today’s date. It’s the only explanation for the dozen women in their gorgeous outfits and purchased-for-the-aesthetic boots who are now lined up at the base of a mountain. A literal mountain in Toussaint. He didn’t know Toussaint even  _ had  _ mountains, because as a person with  _ taste  _ when he is here his focus is on perfumes and fashion and  _ culture.  _ He’s got nothing against nature, no one who spends so much time with Geralt could, but  _ really? _

No matter how many reservations he has about finding the love of Geralt’s life while the man may be too distracted by the wildlife to remember which girl is which, it is his job to be charming and fabulous. So he puts on his biggest “this is going to be fantastic, trust me, I’m a professional'' smile and prepares to tell about twelve irate young ladies they’ll be channeling their inner navigator to hunt down Geralt and part two of their date.

This does not go over particularly well. He is not surprised. Geralt, with all the emotional intelligence of his horse, is no doubt not surprised, but seeing how the lucky man is hiding in an absolutely gorgeous valley waiting for the four lucky women who make it there first, probably having a staring contest with Sabrina, the burden of keeping a straight face and weathering the complaints falls to Jaskier. He really is an amazing wingman.

“Ladies, you’ve each been provided with maps. Geralt is waiting at the location marked with an X.” He pauses. Thankfully, no one seems confused by this. Even better, this means Sabrina owes him twenty dollars, as she was somewhat concerned that certain contestants may not recognize one of the less common letters of the alphabet due to the atrocious spelling and grammar found in their applications. “The first four of you to make it there will be spending the afternoon on a romantic picnic with our leading man!” Big smile! No need to mention that eating on the ground surrounded by seething masses of insects wasn’t romantic in the slightest! “On your marks. Get set. Go!” 

It’s like throwing a rock into a throng of pigeons. The group of girls flies apart as everyone charges in more or less the same direction. Good. That’s good, that no one is reading their map upside down and heading to the parking lot. Not great from an entertainment perspective, but good for Geralt!

Since everyone has mercifully dispersed, he is able to climb into Renfri’s Jeep while the rest of the camera crew huffs and puffs after them, schlepping their pounds and pounds of equipment to film the girls flailing through the woods. Being the boss apparently has benefits, and for Renfri, filming Jaskier interviewing Geralt about the girls instead of chasing people without damaging the equipment is one of them. Thankfully, none of the girls tried to follow the dirt road they use to reach their destination to cut through the woods. Explaining that it is simply imperative they all suffer as much as possible because Tissaia is a bitter sadist would be a disaster, and unlike Sabrina, he doesn’t carry tissues for crying contestants at all times. 

The tissues might have at least provided some padding as he’s tossed around like a very stylish ragdoll by the Jeep’s jolting. Renfri is not one to flinch from possible death, and when faced with a rutted, pothole-laden road, she shoots Jaskier a bone-chilling grin and floors it. They bump along like they’re on the world’s worst maintained racetrack, and Jaskier can feel the one crown in his back teeth doing its very best to shake loose with the force. It is not, by any means, a pleasant ride. 

The massive grin on Renfri’s face makes Jaskier think that perhaps, the she-demon driving him to his potential doom or to Geralt, which one it ends up being still very much up in the air, is Geralt’s soulmate more than any of the girls they’ve bussed in to win his heart. She certainly shares his more...dangerous streak.

Of course, as evidenced by the several pride patches on Renfri’s ever-present leather jacket that Jaskier is only mildly jealous of because it’s gotten so soft with wear, the only person whose soulmate Renfri might have is some equally-terrifying woman. Thankfully. Er, not thankfully. Why would he care whether or not Geralt and Renfri plan on having a horrendously casual outdoor wedding? 

Ugh. His jealous streak is showing. It was never a  _ problem  _ when Geralt just didn’t have other friends, but now Jaskier finds himself being weird over the stupidest things. Weird. That’s right. Weird and not jealous, because if he were jealous, then he’d be jealous over a man with more than a dozen  _ female  _ suitors and that would just not do. So he doesn’t care  _ who  _ Geralt ends up giving a ring, probably one that Sabrina picks for him because he’s so adorably incompetent with fashion, and that is final! The strange pit in his stomach as he thinks about Geralt and people who are not him is a  _ coincidence  _ that is entirely the fault of Renfri’s driving!

He takes a deep, calming breath. Stress will only give him crow’s feet. Whoever Renfri, or frankly Geralt, may or may not decide to sleep with is none of his business, unless one or both decide to attempt to seduce Tissaia, in which case should either succeed he will have many requests for favors. 

The somewhat horrifying image of Tissaia in a wedding gown that covers her from head to toe is mercifully interrupted by what Renfri cheerfully refers to as “parking,” and what Jaskier along with all other individuals in possession of their survival instincts would call doing donuts on the grass of this delightfully scenic meadow crawling in less scenic cables to power Sabrina’s little commander’s table and the assorted cameras until the car skids to a halt. Jaskier unbuckles his seatbelt and darts out of the stationary vehicle before Renfri can decide to be truly terrible and start it up again because some days she is indeed the worst.

His choice in company, until it is time to leave, seems to be Sabrina and Renfri, who may “hate” each other but rushed to each other’s sides rather quickly and will no doubt band together for snarky commentary and overly sexual glances, or that very cranky gentleman from legal whose wife Jaskier may have slept with one wild, uninhibited wrap party two seasons ago. Because he values his safety, and because he can’t talk to Geralt who is on camera, he heads over to talk to the girls. Beyond not risking castration in their presence, they have chairs. Wonderful chairs! He does love his boots, with their slight heel and hand-tooled leather, but they simply were not made for the great outdoors or anywhere other than the red carpet. 

_ “Oh my fucking shit, it bit me!” _

Renfri pumps her fist into the air. “Told you. Five minutes and they’ll lose their shit over bugs.”

“Good, it’ll make a decent B-reel if they’re boring again. Camera five, I think what ’s-her-face is leaving the trail. Follow her, and if you can mention the poison ivy only once she’s stepped in it, that would be excellent.”

“That’s cold. Even for you, babe.” Sabrina grins at him from her chair and gives a half-bow. Jaskier sits because an invitation to do so is not going to just materialize and chairs are in short supply. He’s surprised they even brought any screens out here but supposes that Tissaia likely has a meeting with the network today and therefore Sabrina is stuck doing both their jobs and therefore needs an entire editing bay in the middle of the woods. The poor, brainwashed woman likely considers this an honor. It is therefore Jaskier’s solemn duty to frazzle her as much as possible. For reasons. Sibling rivalry for people who aren’t siblings?

_ “Is there a bathroom anywhere?” _

“Oh, my gods. It’s been fifteen minutes.” On the third monitor, helpfully labeled with a sticker stating that it should never be removed from the office, a girl Jaskier remembers as the one who fell off the horse on night one looks  _ hysterically  _ uncomfortable. Sabrina is already flipping through walkie channels to find the corresponding cameraman, and he relaxes to watch the wicked witch’s apprentice in action. Drama is his lifeblood, as the chief gossip and storyteller of the cast and crew. Maybe this will make Geralt crack a smile when he finds a way to tell it well. “Carl? Yes, hi, please tell her there is no bathroom. Camera three, close up on her face when she realizes she’s going to have to go in the woods.” There’s a brief pulse of static, and Sabrina’s perfectly-penciled-on eyebrows knit together. “Yes, I know there is indeed a bathroom. But we’re not going to tell her that unless we’d like to be fired!” 

“You are a terrible person. Gods, it’s sexy.” Renfri, stubborn creature that she is, has refused the singular remaining chair to lean over Sabrina’s, chin on her head in a way that musses her flawless updo that does indeed resemble, nay,  _ pays homage to _ Tissaia’s. They’ll be having hate sex on the way back, he’d bet anything on that. 

“Thank you. You are infinitely worse and you know it.” She’s not wrong. Sabrina is terrible for work purposes, and while she remains delightfully manipulative off the clock, any true malice fades away to be replaced with mild anger management issues, a love for the finer things in life, and a knack for learning about and discussing other people’s misfortunes that ensures Jaskier enjoys her company. Renfri, however, has a sadistic streak possibly larger than that of their dear Tissaia and became infamous in season four for starting a fight club. And then, subsequently, for beating up several contestants. The reason she hasn’t been fired has got to be more than her fantastic eye for frame composition, though she really does use that camera with the precision of a veteran sniper. The secret to her continued employment is so far above Jaskier’s pay grade, it’s not even funny. All he’s ever found out is the old head of accounting, the asshole who managed to undermine season seven’s budget, was certainly involved and his messy death may not have been an accident. Call him crazy, but people don’t just fall out of balconies to be impaled on ice sculptures at their own engagement party. So yes. Offending Renfri, bad idea, asking personal questions, probably even worse. 

“Hey, Sab? Um, Ashley’s down.” 

“Then give her some fucking antidepressants? No, don’t do that. Make her cry and  _ point a camera at it like we pay you to. _ ”

“Sabrina, do you need to perhaps take a break? Get more coffee?” He’s not sure more coffee is the answer. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her eyeliner is smudged just enough to make him suspect she’d put it on in the dim light of the editing bay’s bathroom. More caffeine might stop her heart, at this point, or at least whatever she’s got ticking in its place, and that would be a shame because he needs someone to go to spin class with in the off-season and Geralt claimed that was not happening ever. 

“I don’t need more coffee, I need—What do you mean she’s down as in she's hurt?” The cheerful footage of Triss and Yennefer strolling through the woods with homemade walking sticks without a care in the world is replaced from the feed from camera six, and true to the tale, the season's current villain is on the ground clutching her ankle and sobbing. Sabrina is practically salivating at it all. It would be unnerving if Jaskier weren’t already planning his narration for the inevitable advertisements for the show this moment will be used in. “Listen very carefully. Get anyone who was near her, I don’t care if she chucked herself off a rock, the narrative is that someone pushed her and I don’t care who, just find a scapegoat. Maybe if we’re lucky there’ll be another fight. Interview her the second she’s coherent.” 

“She is wearing three-inch heels on a hike for some reason. Fifty bucks says she twisted an ankle and fell.” 

Jaskier would bet this is the wrong thing to say. Distracting Sabrina when she’s in Tissaia mode is a threat to life and limb on the good days, and this does not look like one of them. Sabrina is wearing jeans, something she never does unless she feels like she is on the verge of collapse, and worse, she is in actual sneakers. This is a code red level of burnout, and he will not be touching it. Ever. 

“I don’t give a fuck. People hate her, she tackles people at cocktail parties, if I can get these idiots rolling down a hill smacking each other against rocks then—”

“Then mommy dearest will say she’s proud of you?” Shit. He couldn’t help it. And now all of Sabrina’s concentrated rage, with nowhere in her tiny body to disperse to, is directed at him. Now would be the time for Geralt to stop getting made up and  _ save him! _

“Shut up and go pant over Geralt some more. I’m sure he misses his boyfriend.” The Geralt Thing, as it had been christened after the effects of too many margaritas made themselves known in a nightclub bathroom, is Jaskier’s greatest regret. Well, second greatest. Valdo Marx being scouted for a world tour while Jaskier is relegated to being the face of the inconsistent storylines and one-dimensional characters that is this show is the first. But telling Sabrina about his little...excess of feelings that are not romantic whatsoever and is really just an attraction that is occasionally inconvenient was a terrible idea. The worst. What  _ was  _ he thinking?

Oh, right. He was thinking that because they got hideously drunk together, and because ABBA karaoke was involved, that surely he could just  _ spill his guts about whatever.  _ Gods, that was stupid.

“Right. Well. I’m sure you just want me to leave so that you two can continue your weird...whatever this is!” He is deeply ashamed that as a man who prides himself on his way with words, that is the best he came up with. Pathetic, really, and an underlying symptom of his overall discontent. Nothing to do with the way Geralt broods over the view, hair blowing majestically in the wind, hands on his hips framing the curve of his arse—Nope! Not doing that today! Today, he is at  _ work _ , and the Geralt thoughts are  _ not  _ convenient!

_ “Sorry, guys, but I don’t know where we are.” _

“I’m sorry. The trail leads straight here, and we had you all walk it three times yesterday to ensure this wouldn’t happen. How the fuck do you not know where you are? How many people do you have with you? If this is a lawsuit…”

Oh, thank the heavens. Not for some poor cameraman getting lost with however many girls they’re stuck escorting about, of course, but for Sabrina to be angry at someone else. That is always a blessing. 

_ “Uh, three of the girls had to well...go. And so we went off-trail. And now I don’t know where it is.” _

“Fine.” Sabrina leans back in her chair. When she looks back up, her face has contorted into the most terrifying parody of a smile Jaskier has ever seen. Like, every hair standing on end, urge to empty his bowels rapidly rising levels of petrifying. Is there any chance Sabrina is part gorgon? “Listen to me. You are going to tell the airheads who got us into this mess you are lost. You are going to film the crying, the panic, the devastation. You will keep doing this until you’ve got something I can air. And then maybe I’ll activate the GPS on the camera that’s worth more than your organs and tell you how to get your ass over here.” She flicks the walkie off, and the reply is lost to static. Wow. Someone needs a night out. 

A commotion at the other end of the meadow erupts, and Yennefer and Triss come marching proudly out of the woods. Triss is wearing a crown of wildflowers, and if Jaskier were a weaker man or one less terrified of ruining the take, he’d dash over to see if she could make another for him. The yellows and whites might wash out his complexion, but the purple of the heather surrounding them would set off his eyes so well. 

A subtle squeaking noise turns Jaskier’s attention from Yennefer kissing Geralt’s cheek like she’s just  _ allowed to do that now  _ and he is greeted by the sight of Sabrina, ice queen incarnate, staring at the back of Triss’s flower-festooned curls with eyes that could write epics about the desire to drag the girl back into the woods and kiss her against a tree, then immediately propose marriage. He has to blink a few times to assure himself he’s not hallucinating. Maybe Sabrina is possessed. It’s the only explanation for her...heart eyes. There’s no other way to put it. And Renfri sees it too, a smug grin on her face as she clocks on to where Sabrina is looking.

“Awww, do  _ both  _ my friends have unattainable crushes?”

Okay. He does resent his part in this, but he will ignore that if it allows him to join forces with Renfri in mocking Sabrina. Usually, they’re the ones mocking him, and it’s too good to pass up. “Is this why you kidnapped her last episode? Because you wanted a date of your own?  _ Is this why you hate Ashley so much?  _ You’re defending your lady’s honor! That’s precious, it really is.” 

“Both of you, shut the hell up.”

Jaskier does not feel like shutting up. Not now, not ever. Viva la gossip! “Don’t tell me you’re just going to pine away over here while Geralt sweeps her off her feet? You should go get her.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? If we all got rid of your competition.” Her tone is light, but the comment has teeth. It’s the clearest warning to back away from the topic of Triss Merigold as Jaskier could imagine, and he has to wonder if Sabrina is indeed developing actual human feelings. Granted, from what he has seen, Triss is an angel and the human incarnation of a spring goddess, and if anyone could melt Brina a bit it’s her. But still.  _ Feelings?  _ Geralt will  _ never  _ believe him!

_ “All of you, stop thinking with your genitals at once and do your jobs!” _

Shit. 

If there is one thing their motley crew is united on, it is a mixture of terror and respect for Tissaia de Vries. The fact that they all managed to just  _ forget she could hear them _ for the length of this conversation says something about the level of distraction hormones can provide. Well, and true love in Sabrina’s case. He and Renfri just need a good hookup. Not with each other. Separately, obviously. He doesn’t have a death wish.

“Whatever you say, mom. Maybe you should start thinking with your genitals a little more, it might be good for your blood pressure.” 

Sabrina and Jaskier gape at Renfri with matching looks of horror. Did she—? She did. They're all going to die. Tissaia is going to materialize like an enchantress of old and turn them into eels for failing to give her the deference she is due. Oh fuck.

_ “Renfri Creyden, I can and will _ — _ ” _

Renfri grabs the walkie from Sabrina’s frozen hand. It says something about her sheer shock that she doesn’t resist. “You’ll what, fire me? And find someone else willing to play the pack mule for your princess of a protege here mid-season? Fat chance, boss.”

Sabrina shakes herself out of her stupor and grabs the walkie back like it’s a grenade. Jaskier feels like cheering. Sabrina will save them! Or, him and herself. Renfri may be doomed. Throwing herself on the proverbial grenade in a surprisingly noble move— or perhaps she just really is this ballsy. Foolish of him to doubt her, really. “Tissaia, I am so sorry. Renfri, just...Go and film the date! Your job! Do your fucking job!”

Ah, the date that is still missing two participants, because there appears to be a small herd of lost or injured contestants. Not much to film, in his opinion. 

“Sabrina, go make a girl cry, it’s your job.” Renfri kisses the top of Sabrina’s head— and how she made a usually affectionate action seem downright bitchy, he has no idea, but oh does he crave that power—and walks off with her middle finger proudly hoisted in the air for all to see. And people call him a drama queen…

_ “Sabrina, have someone get Pavetta and Kalis’s group over here. If you have to, send Renfri with the Jeep. We’re burning daylight here.”  _

“Right. I’ll do that. Right now!” She does indeed do that, roaring into the walkie like an enraged grizzly bear from the Kaedwanian wilderness Jaskier is certain she was born in. He’s pretty sure the bastard on the other end is shitting himself, and Jaskier doesn’t blame them.

How she goes from “I will murder you if you take longer than ten minutes” to “sighing dreamily over the softest, most pastels-and-foster-animals girl Jaskier has ever seen” is a mystery fit for Holmes, but Sabrina certainly manages. He doesn’t think she even knows she’s doing it, eyes straying from the monitors seven out of every ten seconds, and a dare he even say “soft” smile on her face.

Who is this and what has she done with his bestie, the queen of workplace hookups?

“So...Wanna talk about it?” Nice and open-ended. Nothing threatening or pushy there! Sabrina would hate to hear how dealing with her in her moods can be similar to dealing with Geralt, but it’s true. 

“There is nothing to discuss, other than how Kalis and Pavetta need to hurry up and get here. Unless you wanna sigh dreamily over Geralt’s jawline again because that was fucking hysterical.”

He does kind of want to do that. It is a very nice jawline! And a wonderful man it’s attached to. Grumpy and exceedingly hard to charm, yes, but a truly good man with a heart almost as big as his pecs. Jaskier may be biased, but Geralt is rather dreamy all over. Except for that one inconvenient little detail that stipulates he’s dating girls. A lot of them. And Jaskier, as punishment for his occasionally slutty ways, now has to watch and make witty commentary on the finished footage. Because his life is terrible. 

“Buck up, dearie, maybe Yennefer will persuade him to take his shirt off.” He doesn’t want Yennefer to persuade him to do anything. Not even if it means shirtless Geralt, and he  _ lives  _ for that. He wants, well, a lot of things. Valdo Marx dead. A career in music. Geralt in a tux at the end of the aisle with Sabrina as his maid of honor since any bachelor party planned by her would be legendary—Nope! Still not having these thoughts.

Fuck. If this is what Sabrina’s head looks like right now, after her years-long feelings dry spell, he understands why she’s cranky. “And maybe he’ll propose to Triss. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Fuck no.” Hah! This is an admission! This is progress! He is so proud right now, both because he is an excellent friend and because manipulating Sabrina means he’s like, a genius. “Tissaia wants her as a runner up so we can sign her for next season. He can propose to anyone  _ but  _ Triss.” 

Ouch. He remembers watching Geralt as a contestant on this monstrosity. It had hurt. But this is indescribably worse, knowing that he can’t just quit or be eliminated. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even the junior she-demon next to him. “Make her quit. We both know you could.” Tissaia would be apoplectic, which means Sabrina  _ could _ , but she won’t. Not for anything or anyone. 

“Jaskier. Why would I do that? She’s a goldmine.” Sabrina huffs, and he has to wonder how many times she’s repeated that to herself. “And I don’t like her anyway!” There it is. Denial. The flush on Sabrina’s usually snow-white cheeks would say otherwise, as would the look of utter confusion on her face even as the words leave her pouting lips. He is the foremost expert in pining and denial in all the continent, so he’s forced to sympathize. 

“Just keep saying that. Maybe you’ll start to believe it.”

“Like you’re one to talk. Am I going to need Renfri to restrain you if he gets down on one knee?”

It’s almost cruel, to say if and not when. “No. Cross my heart, darling.” He’s not self-destructive. Dramatic displays of “I’m doomed anyway so I’ll go out hurling insults” are for anyone not named Geralt. For that man, however, he will don a tuxedo and be the best best-man to ever walk the earth, because he might be a bit of a masochist at heart and more than a bit...emotionally attached. He’ll get over it. He was always going to have to. “I’ll behave if you will. Consider it a career suicide pact. We cross Tissaia and the network together or not at all.” That alone will guarantee he never does anything that might interfere with Geralt’s possible future happiness. Sabrina will be her aggressively ambitious self until the day she dies.

“Deal. Shall we get Renfri in on it? I’m not sure what it would take to get her fired, but no doubt it would be exciting.”

Renfri is currently filming the arrival of the two final contestants to the date, arranging her merry band of underlings to catch the reactions of the injured and hopefully now un-lost runners-up as they arrive to find they’re too late. She looks more than a little feral, and for once precious moment Jaskier thinks that maybe seeing what it would look like, all that impulsiveness and barely constrained aggression, unleashed on some poor bastard, would be worth it. His career, maybe, since he doesn’t value this gig too highly, but nothing would be worth Geralt. Such a pity.

“It’s a plan. ‘Till the mutual implosion of our careers and friendships do us part.”


	6. The Society of Terrible Matchmakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the crew drama begins. Tissaia has no love life and is planning on keeping it that way, Sabrina has no feelings and is going to strangle any that show up, and Rita thinks they're both dummies.

It is barely eleven am. Tissaia has been working for all of six hours, and already she’s being disturbed for something as pedestrian as brunch. 

The only person who would dare try to force Tissaia to have, quote, “healthy eating habits because coffee is not a vegetable” is Rita, who has the equivalent sense of self-preservation the gods grant kittens and particularly foolish toddlers. Tissaia, intelligent enough to know when a battle is lost, is willing to allow one scheduled meal interruption to her work per day. Resistance, in this case, is not only futile but at one point had led to Rita coming through the ceiling with takeout to circumvent a locked door and security guard. It’s not worth the trouble to say no. Thus, they are having brunch. 

Rita is always exactly on time. More or less. She’s usually just early enough for it not to be wildly obnoxious, and content to stare through the blinds on Tissaia’s door in an incredibly disturbing manner without blinking as if to communicate exactly how pointless attempting to ignore her is until Tissaia loses the battle to maintain her concentration and allows her inside the office with whatever sustenance she’s procured from the outside world. 

Today, she arrives ten minutes before she was supposed to, waiting with her face inches from the glass and making a variety of idiotic faces each time Tissaia was foolish enough to look in her direction, most likely because she needs to, quote “smile more, life is supposed to be fun.” It is both unsettling and, in Tissaia’s state of punch-drunk sleep deprivation, downright hysterical. So much so, she ended up having to mute her call to the idiots at the budgeting department. They will, of course, capitulate and give her the additional money she requires to pay for the “unexpected” ambulance on their latest group date because poor Istredd is terrified of her and she uses this to her advantage shamelessly, but regardless, the distraction is still unacceptable.

She would explain this to Rita, for the hundredth time since they were first assigned their respective idiotic jobs in a failing televised singing competition together if she thought it would do any good whatsoever. It would not. The most progress they’ve ever made on this front is when she managed to get it through that ridiculously brilliant blonde skull that sending pizza deliveries to her office at one in the morning was not acceptable behavior. Yes, even if she was still working. No, it would not be better if she delivered the pizza herself. Rita is the unstoppable force to her immovable object, and if not for the years of questionably fond memories and the resulting sense of undying loyalty built from horrible work in the trenches of reality TV before their eventual promotions that holds them together stronger than reinforced concrete, they probably would have killed each other in season five, when Rita drunkenly lit the proposal set on fire. Excellent for ratings, terrible for Tissaia’s blood pressure, and the reason they now don’t use tiki torches as set pieces. 

“So. Are you done making interns cry?” Rita waltzes into Tissaia’s office like she owns the place, slams the door with enough force to make the thick wood shudder in its frame, plops a box of food down, and kicks up both her feet next to it on the formerly-immaculate glass of Tissaia’s coffee table, upending her perfectly straightened pens and notes from this call. Tissaia glowers at her, knowing it’s futile. Rita is not afraid of her at all, and it is one of the reasons Tissaia couldn’t bear to give her up and keeps increasing her salary whenever she’s offered a job elsewhere.

“You’re going to break that door. Again.” The dark, polished wood that Tissaia had selected to look as forbidding as possible from the outside is scratched in several places where it closed too slowly and an incensed Rita decided to kick the thing. With every slam, they are one step closer to having to order a new one. The fourth new one since they started shooting at this location. Although in Rita’s defense, door number three had broken during The Vilgefortz Incident, when Tissaia had gotten tired of letting him down gently and called security. 

“So maybe you should buy one that doesn’t weigh as much as a bloody silverback gorilla? It’s like you want to make it harder to get in here. Oh, wait…,” Rita taps a finger against her chin, the parody of concentrated thought. They both know Tissaia would prefer not to see any human being from the hours of six am to at least eleven pm. “Seriously though. You’re like a hermit, except instead of pursuing inner peace or whatever you decided to trick people into ruining their lives on camera.”

“I talk to people!” Usually against her will, but  _ still. _

“You talk to me, and sometimes you talk to your minions instead of yelling at them. Which doesn’t count! You need to talk to people who didn’t  _ make  _ you talk to them. Or I will do it for you. This is an intervention, blah blah blah.”

Dear lord. 

The last “intervention” on set had been for Jaskier, when, by unanimous vote, the crew decided the already far-too-energetic overgrown man-child would be banned from every coffee shop in the nearest town, and the espresso spread provided by crew catering. She still stands behind that decision. Her host, as adored as he is by the housewives of the continent, is downright disturbing when he’s even a modicum more hyperactive than his already staggeringly energetic default. 

She, however, does not need an intervention. Not for her non-existent social life, or for anything else for that matter! She should tell Rita this. Immediately, before she gets any  _ ideas _ . “Absolutely not. I am-”

“If you say the word fine I’m going to make you a tinder profile. Just so you’re aware. And I still have those photos from season ten’s wrap party.”

“Then I am not fine. I am, however, completely satisfied with the frequency and variety of my current social interactions. Except for this one. This one I do not care for at all!” She can’t quite hide her smirk as she says it. Riling each other up is a time-honored tradition between the two of them, the closest to a prank war Tissaia will allow herself to stoop to, and she will admit she does relish a good bout of trading barbed quips, fully aware they lack any real venom or teeth.

“Oh, I bet you are. Satisfied, I mean.” Rita winks, and Tissaia feels a knot of concern growing in her gut. This is not, to the best of her knowledge, a winking situation. 

“I am. So there is no need to continue this topic of conversation. Have some noodles.” Tissaia shoves what she assumes is Rita’s order in her general direction without looking, rummaging for anything in the bag she can ingest, and then not having to speak because her mouth is full. When in doubt, obstruct the interrogation!

“Okay, then let’s talk about how you’re boning a contestant. I didn’t think you had it in you!”

_ What?  _

“I beg your fucking pardon?” The container of dumplings Tissaia had selected as her distraction splats against the coffee table with a wet thud. Apparently, her teensy little habit of forcefully throwing pens when exceptionally angry or taken by surprise is coming back to bite her. Right. She’ll be breaking that immediately because it is going to take forever to get the brown sauce off of her very white couch. Why,  _ why _ had she okayed that purchase?

“Tissaia. Dear. Everybody knows about you and Yennefer.”

“ _ What _ ?” She is not having sex with Yennefer. She has not even  _ considered  _ having sex with Yennefer, who is a goddamned contestant and also possibly deeply unstable. Scheming abilities and social savvy aside, she’s markedly reminiscent of a tornado and Tissaia has no desire to file a second natural disaster insurance claim this year.

“Yeah, I heard it from Sabrina who heard it from Renfri who heard it from Jaskier who heard it from Shani who saw her coming out of your office. There’s a betting pool on when you get married. I picked after Christmas, so if you could just avoid drinking near any courthouses-”

“I am  _ not  _ having sex with Yennefer! Or any contestant! Ever! Maybe-Maybe  _ you’re  _ having sex with her. That sounds like something you’d do. So everyone needs to mind their own business this instant or I will fire them all!” This is an idle threat. Most of her people she’s collected over the years like a ridiculously competent dragon’s hoard with perfect resumes. She would rather cut off an arm than replace her team, and Rita knows it. But that doesn’t mean she’s okay with  _ betting pools.  _ Well, not ones about her. 

“I’m not having sex with Yennefer. I wouldn’t steal your girl like that!” Rita sounds far too pleased with herself, gracefully scooping up lo mein with a fork that must have come from her purse because Tissaia is stuck fumbling with chopsticks. Fine motor skills and minor panic do not, unfortunately, go together, and with this bombshell of an announcement, she is indeed panicking. Just a bit. But in her defense, the entire crew thinking she’s breaking every sexual harassment rule in her contract is  _ not ideal.  _

“She is not my anything. Sabrina recruited her, Sabrina is in charge of her. And if she weren’t such a hit it would be Sabrina in charge of ridding us of the menace!” That is not entirely true. Even if Yennefer weren’t rising to prominence as an audience favorite, with her bizarre little chair fighting gimmick and her ability to smolder into the camera on-cue, her ability to create unrestrained chaos would have scored her a place in the final four at least. But that would mean telling Rita she has any degree of respect, however grudging, for a fucking contestant, and that will not do at all!

Rita seems quite amused by this little barrage of markedly panicked word-vomit, balancing several spare chopsticks on her fork like some strange physics experiment that also doubled as a conductor's baton. “If she’s all Sabrina’s problem, why was she in your office every day this week?”

Fuck. “She was not-It wasn’t every day!” Granted, Yennefer’s visits after her first payday had been frequent. Usually, they were in the early hours of the morning, where the chances were that Tissaia was too busy caffeinating to kick her out. So perhaps she hadn’t kept a meticulous track of just how often the woman was damn near colonizing her couch, snickering at her phone calls and bringing her additional cups of coffee. Every day had to be an exaggeration though.

“Fine. Every other day, then. The point is you haven’t scheduled her for elimination, and she’s breaking into your office almost as much as I do. As your  _ very best friend,  _ I’d be offended she’s stealing our thing if it weren’t so cute.”

“Nothing about this is cute.” Yennefer is not “cute.” Gorgeous, in a somewhat threatening way, yes. An apparent tactical genius. Engaging, witty, and very charming when she wasn’t making comments about wanting to court Tissaia more than Geralt. But not cute. Yennefer is not cute in the same way a cruise missile or a lion is not cute because the capacity for destruction is just too damn high. 

“Call it whatever you want, but you are holding out on me and I do not appreciate it! For once, you’re a part of the set drama! You need to share the experience! You owe me that, at the very least!”

The only “experience” Tissaia has gained is a new, particularly vexing person that frequently makes noise at inconvenient times while looking pretty in front of her while she’s trying to do emails. That’s it. Nothing exciting there. “Fine. I am paying a contestant to torment her housemates and she has apparently assumed this makes us friends. Coconspirators. Something. Are you happy?”

She gets her answer as Rita decides to launch herself at Tissaia’s abdomen like the aforementioned cruise missile. “You have two friends! I’m so proud of you oh my gods. But also please hook up with her because she’s insanely hot and you need it.” 

If Tissaia could breathe, much less speak, she would express how no, she does  _ not  _ have two friends, and if Rita does not let go then Tissaia will have zero friends and Rita will have nothing but a funeral to attend as the main attraction. She doesn’t want to even start on how terrible an idea hooking up with Yennefer would be. Truly the worst. Not an option at all. And surely not something she wants to think about! So if the image of Yennefer naked on her desk would just find someone else to torment, that would be fantastic. Before she ends up blushing in front of Margarita “Bloodhound for potential gossip” Laux-Antille. 

“So are you gonna tell me why you’re all red?”

Fuck.

* * *

  
  


The sun is setting over the vineyards, a cool breeze mussing both her endless stack of paperwork and Triss’s hair, and Sabrina does her best to ignore the fact that she’s not in the editing bay. Which is where she’d told people she’d be because that is her entire job.

Instead, she’s sitting in “their” lounge chairs, ostensibly listening to Triss talk about yesterday’s shared date with Geralt. The one Sabrina was technically present at. It’s less listening and more admiring the smattering of freckles over her cheekbones as the last remnants of sunlight kiss the contours of her face, her skin glowing in the fading light. She really couldn’t be more beautiful. This only matters because camera-friendly contestants make her job easier, of course.

“-And then Pavetta started crying. Which was so weird. And Yennefer turns around and demands to know what Geralt’s problem is! I didn’t know we could even do that.” Sabrina nods along. That certainly was weird, and she is going to figure out what the fuck is going on there because she senses drama. 

“Nothing is stopping  _ you _ from doing that, dear. Nothing is stopping you from slapping him in the face and making out with a member of the crew if you so choose. Not that you should do that, of course. That wasn’t a suggestion in the slightest!” She can’t have Triss getting herself eliminated before the final four, after all. She needs her perfect bachelorette. Otherwise, Triss can kiss whoever she wants, and Sabrina doesn’t give a damn who it is. Really, she doesn’t.

Triss stares at her in open-mouthed shock for a second or two before collapsing into a giggling heap. “Sabrina! That’s-I am not  _ cheating  _ on Geralt! You’re  _ terrible _ .” Cheating on Geralt. Right. Cheating on the man “dating” a dozen other women. For fuck’s sake. 

“Whatever you do, just don’t do it on camera. We don’t want a repeat of season six.” Season six was an utter disaster, though ratings went through the roof. A cameraman ran off with one of the finalists, to the distress of the bachelor, and Tissaia was cackling too hard to bother to blacklist him. So if someone  _ did  _ steal a contestant they might not lose their job. Not that she cares, because she doesn’t want to steal anyone or kiss Triss or punch Geralt because she is  _ not  _ turning into Jaskier, gods damn it all!

“...Are you okay?”

“What?” Fuck. Okay. She schools her face into a neutral mask from the perturbed frown she’d inadvertently allowed to settle there, sifting through her mental folder of potential lies. This is what she gets for thinking about things she shouldn’t be thinking about. Now Triss has  _ questions,  _ and worse, she might be  _ upset,  _ which would be bad because that might make her harder to work with, obviously, it’s not like sad Triss makes Sabrina also sad.

This is the absolute worst. She is an idiot for continuing these little meetings when she doesn’t even have an agenda. Even if the bonding is helping Sabrina’s position when it comes to manipulating events, it’s  _ clearly  _ not worth it!

Triss climbs out of her chair, and all of Sabrina’s internal organs choose this moment to constrict. The two things are obviously not related, since it would only be a good thing if Triss leaves. Really!

She then sits on the edge of  _ Sabrina’s  _ chair and leans over so that their faces are only a foot apart. Soft brown eyes meet her own, open and guileless. It’s downright alien, the way she doesn’t bother to hide her emotions at all, and the gentle smile on her face has Sabrina’s mouth going dry.

For fuck’s sake.

“Sabrina, when’s the last time you slept?” 

Sleeping. She remembers what sleeping is. She remembers that this is a question and thus she’s supposed to answer it. Um. The date was yesterday, and she didn’t sleep after the date because they needed to plan the next one. She didn’t sleep before the date because they needed to set up. How many fucking days is that? Or did Triss mean a day of the week? Fuck! Stall for time! “What day is it, again?”

This is clearly not the right answer, because Triss looks downright  _ alarmed,  _ eyes wide and brows knit together like she’s attempting to make a sweater. “It’s Thursday. Why does that matter? The answer should be last night! Why did you not sleep last night?” 

Sabrina is not a stupid woman. She knows that is a rhetorical question. And she is working on a way to redirect the irate woman ranting about her questionable health curled up next to her when she notices something that should absolutely not exist.

Renfri Creyden is a terrible, terrible woman, and it may be sexy some of the time but right now it is  _ infuriating. _ She crouches in the shrubs to the left, just out of Triss’s view. She is holding a pair of binoculars, for fuck’s sake. And Jaskier is with her because of course, he is. He is wearing an emerald green suit and the terrible camouflage tie Geralt gave him one Christmas, before Sabrina started interfering in the annual gift exchange, and also has binoculars. He gives her a big thumbs up, and she glares at him. What is this? She may be a fucking genius when it comes to making the kindergarten teachers and nurses that go on this show behave horrifically for the camera, but a circumstance where Renfri and Jaskier are sitting together without fighting, Jaskier willingly getting his clothes near any facet of nature without monetary or sexual incentive, and Renfri in an army jacket instead of her usual leather monstrosity like they’re trying to blend into the foliage? She’s drawing a blank. 

Triss absolutely cannot see whatever this is. She has no idea  _ why  _ it’s throwing up so many panic sensors, but it is, and she trusts her instincts. Most of them. Not the one that is telling her to beg Triss to quit while she can still fade into normal-person obscurity and before Tissaia really gets her claws into her. That one can go die. So can the one telling her to take a nap right here using Triss for a pillow, if she’s so upset at her for not sleeping. That one sucks too. But all the others!

“Sabrina! What is going on with you?”

Shit. What’s a way of saying “My coworkers are spying on us in the shrubbery and I don’t know why but I'd like to commit some light arson in retaliation” that didn’t sound utterly insane? 

“I...Sleep deprivation?” She takes off the sunglasses she’d worn to cover her eye bags, and Triss goes from suspicious to fussing over her like, well, a worried girlfriend. In her haste to cup Sabrina’s jaw and examine her tired face, she’s all but climbed on top of her, and it’s, well...She is a very hormonal person. Her sex drive is high enough to extend well past the stratosphere. So excuse her if when a beautiful woman  _ crawls into her lap  _ and starts  _ touching  _ her and muttering about how Tissaia shouldn’t work her so hard, she cooperates. It’s basic human instinct! She likes having Triss touching her because Triss is pretty, and there is  _ nothing  _ wrong or pathetic about that. She just needs to tell that to the little voice that happens to sound exactly like Tissaia on budget meeting days. 

“Sabrina, where do you sleep? Do you have an office, or a bedroom or something? They can’t have you all at a hotel.” They definitely cannot. Not after season two’s mini-bar whiskey binge that ended in a naked pool party and permanent eviction from all properties run by the Stag and Lion Hospitality Collective. Bastards. 

“I don’t have an office or trailer.” Tissaia has an office because she is in charge and took command of the master suite of the manor they rent each year for this mess. Everyone else tends to fend for themselves. Jaskier rents an apartment for half the year, Renfri crashes in her car, and Sabrina...Well, Sabrina used to rent nearby until her ability to drive was cruelly snatched away by one speeding ticket too many, which she cannot tell Triss about since she has a feeling the woman will not appreciate knowing she drove off into the sunset in a stolen vehicle with an unlicensed driver, and she may be crashing in Tisaia’s office. It’s something they haven't discussed, though Tissaia absolutely knows. This does mean, however, that Sabrina can only nap when Tissaia is not present. Otherwise, she’d be stuck doing what pretty much the rest of the crew who decided cars weren’t worth the insurance payments do, which is sleeping in the trailers full of unused set pieces. She has a reputation to uphold, so that’s not an option.

“Then where are you sleeping, Sabrina?” Triss may still be smiling gently, but her tone is unyielding as steel and Sabrina senses she’s not going to be able to bullshit her way out of this one. 

“Crashing on people’s couches. It’s a temporary situation.” She can get her license back in two months. Until then, this is fine. It’s not like she’s homeless, it’s that they’re two hours away from civilization in the middle of miles of fucking farmland and she can’t call an uber to go that distance twice a day!

“...Okay. Please make sure you get enough sleep tonight? If you don’t I’ll...Um...Make you crash with Yennefer and me. And I will make you two get along!” 

Sabrina can’t help herself. She bursts into incredulous laughter. Triss,  _ making  _ her do anything? That’s absolute horseshit. People don’t get to make Sabrina do things except for Tissaia. She doesn’t care  _ how  _ pretty Triss is, she is not in charge here! Even if the mental image of being able to fall asleep on top of her is...Nice. Because, again, she is a human with hormones, and even though that isn’t technically a sexual situation, well...Maybe she  _ is  _ severely sleep-deprived! Fine. She’ll fix that, and her desire to cuddle with Triss or  _ anyone else  _ will go away. And if it doesn’t, she’ll see if Renfri is down for a quickie between takes so that her brain will shut the hell up.

Renfri, who is still watching her with binoculars. Does she stick her hand out of Triss’s line of sight and flip her off? Yes. It’s deserved. 

“I promise I will get some sleep if you promise to keep being adorable on camera. The flower crowns were absolutely angelic.” Focus on Triss. Do not look at Renfri and Jaskier. She is a badass bitch and she  _ is  _ capable of not slapping the shit out of her nosy friends.

“Oh! You liked them? Because I could make you one. If you wanted. They’re very similar to wreaths, and I do those all the time in the shop.” 

She does not need a flower crown. She does not  _ want  _ a flower crown. She doesn’t even like flowers.  _ She’s allergic to pollen.  _ “Next outdoor date, then, if you have time between charming Geralt  _ and  _ the viewers.” Stupid. She’s so fucking stupid. But god dammnit if some idiotic part of her brain wants Triss’s gifts. ”If you’re not engaged by the end of the season, you’re going to have a parade of suitors.” That Sabrina doesn't want to smack at all. Or maybe she does. Fuck it straight to hell.

“I mean, I hope I’m engaged. But so does everyone else!” Well. That’s not good. Not because of how  _ hopeful  _ Triss looks like some random beefy  _ dude  _ is enough to turn her into a blushing, emotionally vulnerable mess, and because if Geralt proposes to Yennefer she’ll get hurt. No, not that, because that’s the literal goal. Obviously, she just needs Triss amenable to a non-Geralt fiance. Like her. No.  _ Not like her for the love of fuck. _

That’s it. She needs to talk to Tissaia. For guidance, or for the other woman to yell at her until she stops being crazy. Because this is utter lunacy at best, and developing feelings like a crush at worst, and she is going to lose her shit. 

“He’d be an idiot to turn you down.” Her voice is far more forceful than intended, the words jumbled rush out of her mouth before she’s halfway done thinking. Geralt is already an idiot to be looking at anyone else, in Sabrina’s opinion, but she couldn’t be happier for that. 

“Thank you, Sabrina. You’re...I’m happy you’re here with me.” 

Sabrina has orchestrated enough dates to know that here, under the emerging stars with Triss’s legs curled up with her own, the admission just off her sweet lips, is where she’s supposed to kiss the girl. But this is not a date, and she is not producing her own romance. So instead she starts to straighten up, releasing a repressed yawn as her excuse to go.

“I’m glad, darling. Now, I think I ought to crash before you call me an ambulance. Sweet dreams.” 

“Good night, Sabrina.” 

She doesn’t look back as she walks away. That would be far too trite, even for this idiotic situation where her heart seems to be throwing a riot at her for daring to walk away. Right. She needs an appointment with her therapist, and another with Tissaia, and booze. Lots of booze. But not with Jaskier, who she is going to violently murder. Renfri, she will poison later once reasonable suspicion has subsided because she doesn’t have a death wish. 

The aforementioned idiots fall into step behind her as their little show ends. It takes all her willpower not to smack them.

“What the fuck was that?” She snaps, cuffing Jaskier on the side of his head and ruffling his stupid hair. 

“Uh, what the fuck was  _ that _ ? That looked like a scene on the show, babe. Not that I blame you. She’s cute.” Renfri grins, licking her lips and winking. Sabrina smacks her with her purse. Triss is way too good for her. Or Geralt. Or Sabrina, frankly. 

“Since when have you two been giant voyeurs?” The one thing missing from that little tableau was Renfri’s camera and the stupid roses Geralt is supposed to be handing out. Or the ones Triss brought. Those were much better. Very pretty, in Triss’s hands and her in that dress and dear fuck this is even worse than she thought. She doesn’t want Triss to give her fucking flowers! If her brain would get with the program, that would be fantastic. 

“I think it was since you decided to seduce a contestant? Like, babe. Do you have an actual heart? It’s too cute!”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck  _ fuck _ . She ducks her head and prepares to power walk for the house like a charging elephant, knowing the effect on anyone in her way will be very similar, when an eerily strong hand wraps around her wrist as inescapable as a pair of handcuffs.

“Not happening, baby. This is too good to let you run off just yet.” Renfri is a bitch. She’s mentioned it before, but it bears repeating! “So when are you planning on seducing her? Because the clock is sort of ticking.”

“ _ I am not going to seduce her! _ ” That was louder than she intended because every crew member in a ten-meter radius is staring at them, drama senses tingling. She glares, and many of them who still have survival instincts to speak of go back to looking busy. She’s got nothing on Tissaia, but she’s been practicing. 

“Why the fuck not? One of us should be happy!” Jaskier’s voice cracks like an adolescent teenager’s. She almost feels bad. She definitely wishes he weren’t stuck watching his crush find his future ex-wife and all, but not if it means he tries to live vicariously through her nonexistent love life, which is exactly the way she likes it so everyone can fuck off with this “seducing Triss” crap. You don’t just seduce a woman like that. Triss is soft and has way too many feelings for Sabrina to dream of processing and is genuinely nice to people on purpose. You’re supposed to bring girls like that expensive gifts and listen to them talk about their day and then marry them, which is why Sabrina should stay far away. Plus, of course, it could get her fired, screw over the next season of the bachelorette, and generally enrage Tisssaia. That is a definite no-go!

“I am happy. Renfri is too, maybe. I’ll admit it’s hard to tell when her face is just like that.”

“Excuse me? I am not the queen of resting bitchface here!” She elbows Sabrina in the gut, because she is the worst, and if she weren’t so fucking hot Sabrina would never have befriended her. But now she’s stuck with the bitch. Fantastic!

“No, you’re more of a lady in waiting. Princess, maybe? But the reigning champion is certainly Tissaia.” Jaskier seems to have recovered some humor with the opportunity to tease everyone else, as expected. He’s quite predictable, but if she’s manipulating him to make him happy, then it’s not manipulation, it’s being a good friend. Or something. She apparently slept through her “how to be a good person” classes as a child. 

“Wonderful. Glad we’ve established a hierarchy. I’m going to sleep before I lose my temper and stab one of you.” Not because she promised Triss. Because she’s tired, and because she definitely needs her beauty sleep. Looks matter in this industry, after all, not just for charming pretty girls with flowers in their hair. She’s going to keep telling herself that. 

She knows it isn’t true, but this is one problem she can’t outwit, and she needs to feel like she’s making a goddamned effort to fix it before she brings it up to the boss!

* * *

  
  


Rita is not going to win any awards for deviousness or trickery in addition to her four-year streak as valedictorian at college. Her brain isn’t wired like Tissaia and Sabrina’s, with all their planning and machinations. But you know what she is good at? Puppy eyes. And making people dance on tables with her.

Obviously only one of those skills is pertinent right now. 

“Hey, babe…” She leans over Sheala’s “desk” that looks more like a tray draped over her knees for her files, fluttering her eyelashes shamelessly. Nothing wrong with a little extra effort when asking a friend she occasionally makes out with when drunk for a technically-illegal favor!

“Absolutely not.” Sheala, a mature person who is all-too-familiar with Rita’s favored brand of excitement that she is, opens a spare newspaper and holds it in front of her face. Rita doesn’t know who she thinks she’s fooling. This isn’t even in English. Or Elder, or the other two languages she is fluent in. And while sure, maybe Sheala reads whatever language it’s written in, she’s  _ also  _ positive it’s upside down. 

“I didn’t even ask you for anything!” Yet. She was going to. She still  _ is  _ going to. But there are formalities to observe and all that jazz.

“No, I shall not be giving you any confidential information. No, I will not write you another prescription for medical marijuana. No, I will not diagnose Tissaia with any sort of disorder as a prank. Does that cover whatever this is?” The newspaper sinks down to reveal a pair of very wary eyes, narrowed into slits. That is no way to treat your partner in crime! Everyone around her is so rude, really, it’s a wonder she’s still here.

“Good news! I’m not actually asking you to do any of those things, which means you have to help me!” She definitely would have asked for any of those things if they hadn’t just been banned, but compromise is an important part of any relationship. She thinks she read that in a magazine article somewhere. 

“That is most certainly not how the world works, Rita dear. I do not  _ have  _ to do anything.”

Right. That sounds a bit like a demand for a bribe to Rita. “I have coffee?”

Sheala huffs, going back to reading...whatever it is. Huh. Apparently, humans  _ can  _ read upside down. 

“I have coffee, and it’s to help Tissaia?”

“...And? You know I care nothing for the internal politics of this mess.” Ugh. Doctors are so  _ weird _ . And granted, you have to be weird to want to write a paper on blah blah blah mob mentality blah blah blah misogyny, which just sounds depressing, and endure several seasons of this mess to do it, but  _ still.  _ Not wanting to be in Tissaia’s good graces while living under her rules is, in Rita’s mind, fucking nuts. 

“Okay, fine. Just tell me if Yennefer is like, mentally unbalanced and likely to stab Tissaia if I tell her that she’s got a crush on her.”

Sheala may not be interested in politics, but that certainly gets her attention. Point to Rita!

“You’re out of your mind. I say this as a professional. Tissaia, unwillingly courted by a contestant, would likely plunge your little...program into utter chaos.” The sneer on Sheala’s lips makes Rita think that perhaps the word she’d  _ wanted  _ to call it was too crass for her oh-so-refined vocabulary. Which is whatever. Some childish part of her wants to see what circumstances would make Sheala default to a good old fashioned “fuck,” but the pretentious words can be sexy. How many ways can Sheala think of to say “take your clothes off?” 

“Come on. Technically we’d be  _ helping. _ ” Helping keep Rita entertained, anyway.

“Rita. Are you under the impression Tissaia would consider meddling in her non-existent love life even remotely helpful?”

“Of course!” Not. But it  _ would  _ be helpful! Probably. If, as mentioned, Yennefer is not the kind of crazy that leads to mass arson but only the kind that leads to being brave enough to date Tissaia. She’s taking precautions here!

“I see. Well. Rest assured that Yennefer has no potential for domestic violence or general criminal shenanigans that I am aware of. This is still a terrible idea, but I am not going to stop you. We both know that is not physically possible.” 

“You’re the best!” She lunges forward to hug Sheala, only to collide with way more force than she’d planned, upending her folding chair and landing them in an undignified heap. That seems to be happening a lot lately, but Sheala is soft and it’s fun to lie on top of her, so really what’s the problem? 

“If Tissaia finds out about this, I had no idea what you were planning.” There’s a fond smile on her usually-serious face as she says it. Rita grins. She could get up, but she’s  _ very  _ comfy, and the fact that Sheala is also making zero effort to move makes her think there are no objections to her current positioning. The hand “accidentally” on her ass is another piece of evidence supporting her thought.

“Of course not. You’re too busy with research and all those weird charts that make absolutely no sense.” They’d probably make sense if she ever listened to the explanations or bothered to even read them, but in her defense, staring at Sheala’s chest tattoo until she snaps and decides making up an excuse to trace the letters with her fingers is way more interesting than  _ math _ . It is her mission in life to figure out what that says. That, and get Tissaia to smile. And maybe convince Sabrina to not become Tissaia’s clone. Get Jaskier and Geralt married. Make Renfri go to therapy. Okay, she has a lot of life missions, but she also has a lot of friends who don’t take care of themselves, so it is  _ not her fault. _

“I’ve  _ explained the charts.  _ It’s very simple!” Sheala shoves herself up onto her elbows, forcing Rita to either move back or end up uncomfortably close to her face. The only suitable option is that second one. In a game of personal space chicken, she will  _ win, dammnit.  _

“Simple, but boring. Like taxes. Ooh, can you do those? Because I don’t understand those either. I’ll do anything you want?” She did not come here looking for an accountant, mostly because Tissaia has an accountant she’s been kind enough to let Rita use, to the point where she was asked if she’d be claiming Rita as a dependent, but also because she could do that kind of math while drunk and asleep. She’s got her taxes covered. But she likes watching Sheala in “I’m smarter than the government'' mode. So. 

“Rita. If you do not remove yourself from my person in the next three seconds…”

“You’ll what?” Please let it be something naughty. She could use a good lay right about now, and while she and Sheala have never gotten further than a few booze-infused kisses that never got discussed, she would totally go there. 

“I will tell Tissiaa about the vodka behind the false panel in her desk. And the tequila in the wardrobe department. I’m fairly certain both locations are highly unhygienic.”

Or she could ruin the mood entirely. This is what Rita gets for liking the smart ones. Sometimes they have  _ priorities. _ “You’re no fun.” But Rita still likes her! She leans in for a quick kiss on the cheek goodbye before scrabbling to her feet, Sheala managing the same feat in half the time with twice the grace, both because she does weird fitness things on purpose and because she hasn’t been day drinking. 

“I know, I’m truly the worst. Go have your fun, but do not tell me about it. Plausible deniability is invaluable around here. However, if you’d like some company playing the deranged matchmaker, you should speak to Jaskier.”

Ooh. That’s a thought. She hadn’t been planning some big, messy matchmaking society, but who is she kidding? Of course, she wants a big, messy club of people determined to meddle in everyone else’s life! “I take back what I said about you being no fun!” She yells over her shoulder, already marching out of the war room. She is going to find Jaskier or Yennefer, whichever shows up first, and she is going to  _ make shit happen _ ! For charity and also because it’ll be fun!

She decides to head towards the house, planning to snag whatever leftover booze she can from catering on the way. Is it safe, careening around in heels near a swimming pool while plastered? Fuck no. Is she going to do it anyway because she lives her life on the edge? Yes. 

She’s well on her way to “seeing double by four pm on a Friday” before she bumps into a rather despondent-looking Jaskier moping by the Jeep. She didn’t know he and Renfri were even friends, but if he thinks he can sit on the roof of her baby without being murdered, they must be close.

“You look like shit. Want a drink?”

“You are my savior.” Well. That sounds like a yes to her. She passes Jaskier the bottle, hopping up to join him on the car because fuck standing. She’s already swaying, and she’d prefer not to fall on her ass in the gravel. 

“Wanna talk about it? Or do you want a distraction? I can do both.” She’s more than happy to listen to Jaskier’s boy problems. He’s her kind of person, really. Chaotic, emotionally immature, and as Renfri had proclaimed one drunken wrap party, “pure of heart, dumb of ass.” Can’t hold his booze for shit, but yeah. He’s a sweet kid. 

“No talking. Please tell me there’s a distraction. Did Tissaia turn our legal rep into a toad? Or did Sabrina run away with Triss?”

“...Was that second one a possibility?” Could there be  _ two  _ potential matchmaking schemes? Three if you count Geralt and Jaskier! Oh, this could be  _ exciting _ !

“It should be!” He takes a swig from the bottle, coughing loudly as his eyes widen, already tearing up. Damn. Next time, she’ll steal Sabrina’s wine for him!

She wipes the gleeful smirk off her face, aware of how it makes her look a little too unhinged for people to let her do anything fun. “Do you want to make it a thing? Because Tissaia and Yennefer should also be a thing. Sabrina and Triss can like, run off and be wholesome, and Tissaia will be too busy panicking over having actual hormones to stop them.” And then, with his potential love interests running off to be gay and happy off-camera, Geralt will realize he’s a moron and give Jaskier one of the pretty rings they’ve been cooing over every season. There’s literally no way this could go wrong! Probably.

“...Yeah. Sounds like a plan. The two witches can run off and be terrifying together, Sabrina can stop moping like someone stole her puppy, and Geralt…” He doesn’t say what Geralt can do. “Geralt can do me” might be an appropriate fill-in-the-blank, but because Rita is nice. she’s not going to call Jaskier out on that. Yet. Right now he’s drunk and sad, and that is  _ not  _ the time to embarrass people. Where is happy, singing drunk Jaskier? She misses that guy!

  
“It’s a  _ great  _ plan. So. How do you feel about lying and minor property damage?”


	7. Two Makeover Scenes and a Messy Drunken Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yennefer decides to hug Tissaia, Sabrina decides to be a makeup artist, and Jaskier decides to be a professional Geralt-wrangler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. My dudes. I am so sorry about the hiatus. I'm hopeful we can now get back to my once every week or so posting schedule now, so yay for that. Just. Ugh. Winter kinda hit me like a truck.

Yennefer was, to put it mildly, drunk off her ass. It’s great! On a fucking Monday, she gets to spend her morning having cute blondes give her free vodka which she is allowed— nay, encouraged— to use to get absolutely wasted poolside. The show may be complete bullshit, but fuck, if there weren’t parts that were fun as hell. The fact that those fun bits also paid her more than her actual job was just a delightful little bonus. 

Yennefer raises the bottle above her head, swaying slightly. Here’s to Tissaia, may she continue funding Yennefer’s unemployment until this shitshow ends.  She’s actually dreading that. She  likes living in a giant mansion with Triss and flirting with hot people all day!

The late afternoon air was warm, though perhaps not warm enough to justify the little string bikini-top-a-size-too-small and wrap number Yennefer was sporting, especially considering the setting sun meant the “I’m tanning, not just trying to look appealing enough to entice even the most uptight of TV producers, for example, even though looking hot in front of cameras is literally what you pay me to do” excuse she’d cooked up has less credibility than the average billionaire’s tax return. Call it multitasking, but if there’s one thing Yennefer excels at, it’s killing two birds with one stone, and if she can maybe, possibly get a certain someone’s attention while lounging around all day, that’s what she’s gonna do!

Well. If her free vacation of awesome is going to end in like...a month? Maybe? She’s bad at math when she’s drunk, and when she’s sober, and just in general, really, so she’s going to say a month but isn’t sure. Anyway. She really ought to make the most of her time here, right? 

At least, that’s the logic she uses as she approaches the big speakers by the side of the pool, nearly giving herself a heart attack as the force of the music blasting like a godsdamn jet engine taking off as the full force of the sound slams into her. It’s the logic she uses when she decides to grab Blonde Alcohol Lady to dance with her since it seems just about everyone else is off on another group date. And it is the logic she uses as more and more crew members peel off from whatever their orders from the ever-crackling walkie-talkies demand, if only for a moment to either stare or join the fray.

By the time the song ends, an impromptu game of beer pong is going down on one of the patio tables and several bottles of liquor that weren't there before are being passed around the small crowd. It’s not exactly a nightclub, but Yennefer is having a ball.

Six songs later, when she’s gone from pleasantly tipsy to barely upright, she turns to her new bestie and decides, in her infinite wisdom, that shoving a woman into the pool is a great fucking idea, just like it was the last time with Kalis on the first night. 

Blondie hits the water with a delighted squeal, hauling herself out, dripping wet, to rugby tackle Yennefer. They go sailing over the edge, which is pretty much exactly what Yennefer intended. She’s almost choking from laughing too hard when they finally surface, to the sound of someone yelling about a pool party and the very attractive ladies and gentlemen of the crew flinging away their shirts to jump in. Which, in Yennefer’s very biased opinion, is an excellent development. She knows she can’t actually sleep with them or Tissaia will probably tell Geralt to get rid of her, but looking is still very much on the table!

She would rather be looking at Tissaia, truth be told, but she doubts she could ever get that woman into a swimming pool in her fancy skirts and blazers. Huh. Maybe if Yennefer offered to lend her a swimsuit? She’d look so good in a bikini. Or nothing. Naked Tissaia in the pool with her could be  _ very  _ fun…

As if summoned by the sound of Yennefer’s hormones, the woman in question comes stomping out of the house.

“What on earth is the meaning of this?” Tissaia stands on the porch, hands on her hips and a scowl on her pretty face. She does not look pleased. Well, that’s fair. Who wouldn’t be mad about a party they didn’t know about? Someone should have invited her!  _ Yennefer  _ should have invited her, that would have been so much fun!

It occurs to her that she may be extremely drunk if her brain is insisting that the workaholic producer might have joined her employees in a drunken swim. She climbs out of the pool, intent on diffusing the situation or something. She doesn’t have what any reasonable individual could call a plan, but she knows  _ someone  _ ought to take one for the team and get yelled at here, and since this was all Yennefer’s idea, that person should be her.

She hates her ethics. They may end up getting her kicked off her vacation of free money. Drunk her truly has terrible ideas!

“Hey, Tissaia! You’re out of your office!” She staggers across the patio until she’s a few feet away from Tissaia. She’s  _ so  _ pretty up close. Like, insanely pretty. Yennefer kind of wants to hug her. She’s so grouchy all the time. Maybe she just needs a hug!

It is this thought that ultimately causes problems. See, Yennefer is usually good at reigning in the little drunken devil on her shoulder. Well, some of the time. And she’s smart enough to know that any ideas involving Tissaia and physical affection in front of an audience, or ever, are  _ terrible  _ ideas.

The issue is that she’s already launched herself at Tissaia’s body and wrapped her arms around her neck before all that gets processed. And hey, if she’s already going to die, she may as well  _ commit.  _

She nuzzles up against Tissaia, bringing her closer and definitely soaking her expensive-looking jacket. She smells amazing. That seems like a rather trivial detail, and she totally shouldn’t be sniffing the woman who holds her future in her hands, but here they were! It was happening, so fuck it all.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re really tiny? It’s cute. Like a little purse dog.” 

“Yennefer. Remove yourself from my person  _ this instant. _ ” 

“Nope!” She doesn't wanna do that. She wants to stay right here, and also the world is  _ really  _ spinning right now and if she tries to stand up she’s gonna barf. So yes. Surely Tissaia can support her weight for like, five seconds to ten minutes, depending on how quickly Yennefer metabolizes all this booze?

She hopes it’s closer to ten minutes. She’s never noticed, during their little ‘here’s some money, cause some chaos” meetings, how soft Tissaia’s hair is. She’s swept it up into a complicated knot on the back of her head, but a few locks have escaped, brushing against Yennefer. She likes Tissaia’s hair. She wonders if she does it herself or if Tissaia has her own hair and makeup person. She probably does, and they’re very lucky to get to touch her.

“Rita! Get  _ someone  _ to get her off!” 

“I’d rather you get me off. I like you the best.”

Oops. So, Yennefer is not aware that what she just said could constitute sexual harassment until she says it, and by then Tissaia is already letting out a strangled yelp and attempting to shove at Yennefer to get her to let go. It doesn’t work very well. All Tissaia manages to do is get her hands directly between them and onto Yennefer’s chest, which, for the record, she is totally okay with.  Tissaia , the raging bitch that she is, is also  _ insanely  _ hot and can feel her up whenever she wants.

These feelings do not appear to be mutual, which is a tragedy. Tissaia’s eyes drop from Yennefer’s face to her hands, and the enraged look on her face is replaced with horror in an instant. 

“I am so sorry.” She wriggles out of Yennefer’s embrace, moving back to keep a healthy distance between them. Yennefer can’t help but pout at that. She was having fun!

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not mad.” She’s just very dizzy. Huh. And seeing two Tissaias, which is like, a fantasy she didn’t know she had, but also probably a bad sign. 

“Oh, fuck’s sake. Someone catch her!” She’s not sure who yells that. The world sounds like she’s underwater, and words are a faint echo on the surface. She barely notices when she falls on her ass, staring dreamily up at Tissaia, staring  down at her and crowned with sunlight. 

She smiles  in a way that’s meant to communicate to Tissaia that everything is totally fine , triumphantly raising an arm to give a thumbs-up and hopefully convince everyone that she’s not in need of a hospital visit. A bit wobbly and embarrassed at the decline in her alcohol tolerance since Triss started making her look after her liver or whatever, yes. At any risk for alcohol poisoning? Not even close.

“Sorry I got your suit all wet. Looks good on you, though. It’d look even better on the floor.” Tissaia goggles at her like she’s grown a second head and Yennefer throws her own head back to laugh. Ah, the unshakeable director’s weakness is bad fliritng. This is fucking hysterical. “I think that…'' She pauses, trying to remember how that sentence was supposed to end. Her brain is less than helpful, instead of focusing on the fact that Tissaia’s shirt is a blinding white and now delightfully see-through after Yennefer’s inadviseable bout of affection. Damn. She didn’t take Tissaia for the wearing lacy bralettes to work sort, but she’s into it. Really into it, and into Tissaia’s whole “Fuck with me and die” vibe. Right! She’s into Tissaia, that’s where she was going with this. “I think that you’d be a better bachelor than Geralt. You smell better, and you can talk. Also, you’re hot.” 

It is, all in all, not her most charming or seductive proposal. Not even close. But Tissaia de Vries, ice woman incarnate, will not meet her eyes or look at anything except the ground, and Yennefer feels flush with both booze and victory. She loves this game! This is great.

“Someone please make sure she doesn’t go near any sharp or flammable objects until she sobers up. I-I have to go. And do...something elsewhere. Rita, we will speak about this later.” Yennefer’s booze provider gives a mock salute, and then a small swarm of people in black crew shirts is lifting her up and putting her back on the lounge chair. That is very nice of them. Genius, really, because a nap right now sounds amazing. A nap, and then several pounds of greasy food, and then hopefully Triss will be back from her date and Yennefer can watch her be all adorable about how much she likes Geralt until it’s time to go to bed. Yes, this is a fantastic plan. 

As her eyelids succumb to their own weight and drop closed, Yennefer smiles. She really does like it here. And the sexy, clever producer may play a larger part in that than previously intended. 

She really ought to do something about that. It may be the booze talking, but who  _ doesn’t  _ want a brilliant, wealthy, gorgeous woman to be their sugar mommy? Obviously, she should get on that. Tomorrow. After she sleeps for sixteen hours.

* * *

  
  


Triss is blissfully unaware that back at the mansion, her roommate is plotting to seduce the producer in a drunken haze. This is probably a good thing for her blood pressure, though not for Tissaia’s, as perhaps if Triss  _ were  _ aware she could tie her amorous roommate to a chair and prevent any sort of shenanigans.

Triss does not need any additional help from Yennefer in the “heart rate shooting into the stratosphere” department. She has a date. An actual one-on-one date with Geralt. And she is  _ nervous. _

“Baby. If you don’t breathe, you’re going to pass out.”

“Right. Sorry!” Triss gives Sabrina a sheepish grin. She really thought she was doing a better job of hiding the fact that she’s kind of freaking out. Her heart is pounding, her throat is closing up  like it did the day she discovered she was allergic to certain burn medications, and generally an event she’s been dreaming of in terrifying detail since they announced Geralt as the next bachelor is causing her more anxiety than the week of finals used to. This is less than ideal because the aforementioned event is happening in precisely one hour whether she likes it or not. 

“Don’t apologize. Eyes closed, please.” She closes them, all but frozen in place as Sabrina leans in to do her eyeliner. She’s replaced the makeup girl, something about days off and understaffing, and Triss was quick to get into the chair and follow orders so as not to complicate an already less than ideal situation. If an actual producer is doing her makeup, it must be one hell of a mess!

Sabrina’s cool hands are so soft where they cup her chin to hold her face steady, but the proximity is unnerving. Sabrina is eerily put together at all times like her eyeshadow was tattooed on at birth, and this makes the idea of her finding something  _ wrong  _ with Triss’s appearence very likely. And terrifying. Not that she thinks Sabrina would be mean about it, because yes, while she can be a bit… forceful, she is  _ not  _ the bitch Yennefer says she is. She’s just very beautiful and that makes her intimidating. It also makes  her very qualified to help Triss, which is beyond wonderful because it’s one singular thing her brain can’t insist on worrying about. She may trip over her own feet and manage to spill a drink on Geralt’s shirt, or accidentally say something silly on camera, but she will look gorgeous while she does it. 

“Now open.” 

She does, and  _ wow  _ they are very close together.

Sabrina seems not to be particularly bothered by the fact that she’s inches away from Triss, within kissing range, as Triss’s traitorous bisexual brain clamors to remind her. Sabrina is utterly oblivious to this small gay crisis while she examines her handiwork. “You look lovely. Maybe I’ll just steal you away from Geralt now, hmm?’

She’s joking. She is definitely joking. So  _ why  _ does it suddenly feel like the room is several degrees hotter and why are Triss’s insides carbonating? She is here for  _ Geralt,  _ not to flirt with pretty girls! She’s not, well, Yennefer. And she feels very guilty for that thought, and all her thoughts about Sabrina. It’s a guilt-spiral kind of day, apparently, and she  _ hates  _ it.

“The look on your face just now…Darling, I’m not going to lock us in a closet together until you admit you’re too good for him.”

Right. That’s…good. Because being locked in a closet would be bad. Even if it’s with Sabrina. So can she just  _ say something now? _

“I’m not too good for him. Obviously, I mean I’m here, aren’t I? But thank you.” For doing her makeup, for reassuring her when she feels like she’s about to faint, for just existing in her general vicinity. Sabrina can pick a damn reason, okay?

“You’re welcome, Triss. Just remember that you have other options if this little horse race doesn’t go right.” Triss doesn’t have the opportunity to further embarrass herself replying to that. Sabrina plucks a tube of lipstick from her makeup bag and runs it over Triss’s bottom lip, and clearly, it has been too long since she slept with anyone because this shouldn’t be a sexual thing at  _ all _ , but it is. She wants Sabrina to replace the lipstick with her thumb, and then maybe her lips. Sabrina has a mouth that was probably sculpted by the gods for maximum pouting and seduction capabilities, and Triss can’t stop staring at it. She could go through every flower she’s ever sold and still not find that shade of pink...

She is going to hell. Sabrina is being nice to her, as a  _ friend,  _ and she’s sexualizing her while dating another man. This is…this is a mess. This is the reason she never should have come here, and why if she and Geralt don’t work out, she will  _ never  _ go on television ever again. She’s learned her lesson!

“There. Done. You look gorgeous, go be charming and adorable. If he stops talking, ask him about his pets.” 

Pets. She can do that! She loves animals, and it’s really a tragedy her landlord wouldn’t let her get a cat or two. So yes. She can definitely ask about whatever animals Geralt has.

“Thank you, Sabrina. Really.” Does Sabrina have any animals waiting for her at home? She doubts it, given the woman’s rather precarious couch surfing habits. She doesn’t really strike Triss as a dog person. But who knows. People are full of surprises, and for all she knows Sabrina has a literal zoo, but it doesn’t  _ matter  _ because she is  _ not here for Sabrina.  _

Why is that so hard to  _ remember _ ?!

“Don’t thank me yet. Someone could still crash this thing.” She shoots Triss a mischievous smirk, and  _ wow  _ somehow she got even sexier, isn’t that just fantastic? 

She shakes herself out of her Sabrina daydreams, back to the previous train of thought. Because she did not think of anyone crashing this thing and what she’d do if they did. It’s doubtful that even the most determined woman would crash this date, seeing as they’re several miles away from the mansion, but still...Unless Ashley steals a car. Would Ashley steal a car? Would Tissaia let her, for the drama of it all?

Right. Deep breaths! No panicking about Ashley. She can’t control Ashley. She can only control Triss, and even then not all the time. 

She also cannot control Yennefer, who is unsupervised at the house with Ashley. Terrifying visions of their little chair fight flash behind her eyelids, and she has to convince herself that Ashley is not going to attempt to crash this date or provoke a violent fight with Yennefer. She isn’t! Think positive, and all that!

Positive. Okay. She is going to see Geralt. She is not going to trip, spill anything, knock them or any of the decor over, and no one will be allergic to the food. Tissaia will get good footage, so Sabrina will keep that half-smile that Triss loves so much on her stupidly pretty face, and Triss will stop caring so much how pretty she is.  _ Geralt is pretty too!  _ Or, well, handsome. He’s not what anyone would call pretty. Which is fine! That’s great. She’s attracted to him, and she is going on a date with him, so her brain needs to  _ stop _ .

“Okay. Well, I’m as ready as I’m going to get.” Which is not very. She still has the urge to head for the hills. This is the first time she’ll be alone with Geralt since the first day, and she is just as petrified now as she was then, and this time there’s no Yennefer to shove her out of a limo. Not that she wants to be shoved.

“Have fun, darling. If he says anything broody or rude, I’ll slap him for you.” Sabrina winks, and Triss goes through seven stages of confusion as her brain latches onto the thought of her slapping someone with entirely too much interest for a person who is not into that sort of thing, probably. She’s pretty sure? Dear gods. What is _wrong_ with her? She should not want Sabrina to commit acts of violence on her behalf. Or slap her. Both are bad!

...First thing after this date, she is going to talk to Sheala. About what, she doesn’t know. Maybe her alarming new interest in having a pretty girl slap her in the face, maybe her newly summoned commitment issues, maybe to beg for anti-horniness pills. She’ll figure it out. Later.

* * *

  
  


Geralt’s date prep, unbeknownst to him, is going just as poorly as Triss’s.

The problems arise, as they usually do, with the clothes an apologetic crew member tries to stuff him into before Jaskier chases them all off. Which is good. He isn’t going to wear this tie. It feels like a noose, and it’s  _ silk _ , and this is all a big fucking mess.

“Is this how you charm the ladies? Stand in the corner and brood?”

“Hmph.” He’s not  _ brooding.  _ He’s wondering if he can escape. Today, Sabrina convinced  _ the entire  _ hair and makeup team to ambush him and forcibly shampoo his hair, and now it’s all...shiny. It’s weird. Everything is weird, and he has a date with a girl who’s all nice and smiles at him and he doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ He likes her. Of course, he likes her. But that doesn’t mean he wants to sit at a fancy dinner and pretend he knows which fork you use on meat versus a salad.

“Honestly, Geralt. If you stare at her like that she may run and hide.” Jaskier, chirping little bird that he is, begins strutting around Geralt like a planet orbiting the sun and plucking specks of lint from the shoulders of his jacket. Like a fucking animal grooming ritual, except they’re not animals, they’re people. If they were animals, no one would expect him to be nice and knowledgeable about small talk and wear ties!

Jaskier ends his circuit, standing in front of him like a drill sergeant inspecting his recruits, and Geralt stands up just a bit straighter. He towers over Jaskier, but the man seems utterly unbothered and less than concerned for his personal safety even though Geralt  _ could  _ crush him. Instead, he grabs the tie of the table and advances like a cowboy with a lasso.

“I’m not wearing it.”

Jaskier sighs, a breathy, amused little thing, and it brings an unwanted smile to the corners of Geralt’s lips. He’s such a dramatic creature, and Geralt would kill for him, but that doesn’t mean he understands him. That’s probably okay. Most people don’t exactly understand Geralt either.

“You’re wearing it because your best friend in the whole world thinks you’ll look very handsome in it and asked you to. Don’t you want Triss to think you’re handsome?” He brandishes the blue silk like it’s a flag, and Geralt takes a small step back. Barely a step at all. But deep down he knows the battle is all but lost and only token resistance will be tolerated.

Because he does want Triss to think he’s handsome. That’s what everyone wants on a date. Well, that and a second one. And Jaskier thinks he’ll look handsome, and so he should listen to him. Not because he wants Jaskier to think he’s handsome. He just has good judgment about shit like clothes. Fuck.

“Fine.” He remembers how to tie a tie. He thinks. Can’t be too different from tying rope.

He grabs it from Jaskier’s open hands, jams it around his neck, and does his best approximation of a half-Windsor knot that does  _ not  _ hit the mark because somehow the noose they’ve given him ends up wrapped around his wrist. And jaw. The tail of the tie is behind his back.

It’s a disaster, and while the frown on his face may well be set in stone, Jaskier is under no such facial boundaries and bursts into a bout of laughter. Fuck.

“Oh. Oh  _ wow.  _ Let me help you. Though I do hope you’re better with your hands than this, or your contestants will have all sorts of complaints after the overnight dates!”

“Jaskier!” His ears are just a bit red at the implication. He doesn’t want to think about that! Or, well, he does because he likes sex, but not now and not about how it’ll all go wrong. 

“Oh, relax. I’m sure Tissaia won’t allow them to say anything that would up our rating on camera.” Jaskier disentangles his mess of an accessory, almost chest to chest with Geralt. He reaches up to readjust how the damned thing sits under his ridiculous collar, slowly and methodically as his hands work over the strings of his guitar. Geralt has minimal respect for fashion on him, knowing as he does that he’s likely to shred the expensive clothes in the pursuit of some creature that happened to make an appearance, but Jaskier’s complete ease with his gestures and lack of concentration at the task at hand is impressive.

He doesn’t step back once the knot is tied, smoothing out Geralt’s lapels and straightening the roses they keep shoving in them. Geralt gives him his best attempt at a smile, knowing it looks more like a grimace. He appreciates the effort on his behalf, even if he can’t say he’s enjoying it. 

“Very handsome. Now, do  _ try  _ not to complain about the shoes.”

“Why not? I look like some sad accountant. Or a vacuum salesman.” He doesn’t know who picked the things out, but they were  _ not  _ Jaskier, whose taste in leather goods tends to be as flawless as it is unsustainable and expensive. He wouldn’t be surprised if these monstrosities were plastic.

“A very handsome vacuum salesman, Geralt. Now  _ smile.  _ Dates are happy occasions!”

He is aware of that! He just doesn’t want to be on one. Which is not fair to Triss, who he actually enjoys talking to. He just doesn’t like  _ dates.  _ Not the “flowers and dinners with triple-digit bills” kind, anyway. Maybe she’d like to meet Roach? People always liked Roach. Even Jaskier, whose opinion on farmyards and barns tended towards the “absolutely not.”

“Right. Er, thanks.” He knows he should act like a person with actual manners with Jaskier, who is outstandingly nice to him even when he acts, well, like himself. Sheala had told him this, and because he thinks she is a very intelligent if conniving, and immoral woman, he listened. 

“Always. Till death do us part, and all that. You’ll have me telling you to smile at your wedding.”

Right. That… is a mental image he does not need now. He does not want to think about weddings, and who he might marry. Not yet, even if that’s the entire goal of this monstrosity. The one constant is that whoever is at the end of the aisle, Jaskier will be his best man. Probably flirting with half the bridesmaids and bickering with the decorators. And that will make the whole experience okay. Making Jaskier happy tends to do that.


	8. What Do Doctors Know, Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sabrina is a Tissaia clone in the most concerning way possible, matchmaking gets wildly out of hand, and Tissaia is just terrible.

Sabrina is not freaking out, okay?

She’s just...seeking a professional medical opinion. For no reason, since there’s nothing to be concerned about. There is  _ nothing _ to be concerned about, and that’s why she’s in Tissaia’s office with both Tissaia and Sheala staring at her in open-mouthed shock and horror.

Sabrina leans back on Tissaia’s couch that also doubles as her bed these days and exhales slowly. As long as she’s doing that, she can’t demand to know why they’re staring at her like she’s crazy. Because the answer is obviously that she’s  _ lost her fucking mind,  _ but she wants to remain in denial for just a few moments longer _. _

She doesn’t  _ do  _ self-doubt, but there’s a small part of her brain wondering if this is the final straw and Tissaia decides she’ll never be worthy of moving up in this industry and replaces her mid-season. It certainly has taken less to break Tissaia’s back before. It happens. Often. Well, to others, at least. They’ve fired four people so far this month alone and it’s only the 8th.

“Let me get this straight. You believe you are developing feelings for Ms. Merigold.” Tissaia pinches the bridge of her nose like she does whenever she feels a migraine coming on, or when she’s trying to hide the fact that her eye is twitching because some peon on set did something that is going to create a mountain of paperwork. Sabrina feels a bit like she just told her mom she shot an arrow through the dining room window.

“I do. It’s fucking idiotic, I know, I’m sorry, but it just won’t go away.” She would like it to go away. Really, she would. She would like to take this weird, lingering urge to...wrap Triss in blankets and kiss her forehead and burn this entire disastrous fantasy (and herself) at the stake. She’s tried her best to ignore it, but that is not working. At all. 

Tissaia sighs, “Do you believe this will affect your ability to recruit her for next season?” 

“I promise, it won’t.” It wouldn’t matter if she suddenly decided true love was in fact real. If her choice has to be between stealing Triss for her own selfish purposes and earning Tissaia’s approval, Sabrina will always pick Tissaia. They both know it. 

Ever the picture of perfectly schooled cynicism, Sheala makes no effort to dampen the edge of incredulous horror in her voice as she cuts in. “Wait, I’m sorry, are you  _ really  _ encouraging her to ignore the first semblance of healthy human emotions she’s expressed since she started working here so you have your ideal puppet?”

“ _ Yes! _ ” She and Tissaia speak in perfect unison, and Sabrina finds herself hiding a triumphant little smile. It’s always good to know the boss agrees with her. Healthy human emotion can suck it. Send the feelings back to whatever smoking crater they crawled out of after she’d nuked them the last time.

“Fine. Sabrina, consider this an intervention. You may choose to be an emotionally constipated disaster like your surrogate mother if you so choose, that is your right, I suppose, but deliberately torturing yourself by remaining in Triss’s presence is just moronic. So don’t.” Sheala crosses her arms over her chest and waits, probably for everyone to agree with how smart she is, which isn’t ever going to happen.

Sabrina has to feel a bit smug that the psychologist thinks she’s like Tissaia. This is the highlight of this entire bullshit conversation and frankly, her entire career. “That’s ridiculous. I’m the only producer who has any sort of rapport with her! Think about the ratings!” Anyone else, and instead of going on an  _ adorable  _ date with Geralt, Triss would be busy hyperventilating in a closet. But instead, they have footage of the two of them holding hands in the woods and talking about wildlife guides. Because apparently some crunchyass, expressive-as-a-cliff-face nature boy is just  _ so _ perfect for the wild-flower crowned florist. Fucking prick…

“Correct. Getting you off of Triss at this juncture would be beyond wasteful of the effort and time you’ve already put into the girl.” Take that, stupid doctor! What does Sheala know about people, anyway? Call in a sociologist, then they could talk. “We both know Sabrina will have this... unfortunate little lapse in judgment under control in under a month, if that. Until then, feel free to get the girl out of your system. She cannot, under any circumstances, marry Geralt. If the two of you are screwing in closets—which I would recommend rather than using the lounge chairs you two seem to have claimed— she’s not going to be planning her wedding. Not until next season, anyway. Break up with her in the hiatus, that way she signs a contract in a bitter haze, we all get paid.”

“Tissaia, that’s terrible. Even for you.” Tissaia levels a frosty glare Sheala’s way, which seems to do somewhere between “nothing” and “not a godsdamned thing” in curbing her disapproval. Well, that doesn’t matter, because obviously, Sabrina is going to do what her boss says. It’s a very logical plan. Borderline sadistic, yes, but very effective, and Sabrina is smart enough to know that if she pulls off seducing the group angel and tricking her back on for another season she’ll net the mother of all bonuses.

Tissaia trusts her with something that big. That’s all she’s wanted for, like, ever. So why does she feel  _ conflicted _ ?

“Great. Let’s do that. I’ll go talk to her once she gets back from her date.” Talking to Triss is fun. Seducing Triss will be even more fun. And then she’ll stop feeling things, Sabrina can find Triss a perfect husband during casting to apologize, she’ll get promoted, and it’ll all be fantastic. How does that saying go? To get over someone, get them under you? Something like that.

For fuck’s sake. She feels like she’s going to vomit, and it’s not from drinking too much of the coffee from catering. But she is Sabrina motherfucking Glevissig, ice bitch in training, so she leaves the office with her head held high, her spine perfectly straight, steps measured. She is fine. Better than fine. She will tough out whatever weird clenching thing is going on in her ribcage even if that means wringing the neck of whatever fluttery thing that seems to have taken up residence in there with her bare hands, she will find Triss, and she will flirt with her until she’s doing that adorable thing where she smiles and blushes and suddenly is completely unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Gods, she’s precious when she does that. It makes Sabrina want to take her back to her penthouse, license suspension be damned, and spend the evening kissing her senseless in their pajamas.

...That is not a thought she should be having. That is the  _ worst  _ sort of thought she could be having, right up there with that one recurring dream of stealing one of the goddamned rings Tissaia gives out to the bachelors like they’re candy and proposing under the moonlight and — Nope. Fuck that shit. 

If only Sheala weren’t so against this entire plan. A psychiatrist has got to have some sort of secret handbook for purging unwanted biological and emotional impulses. But no, instead she’s here, crossing the overly manicured lawn, head in the clouds, being bizarrely sentimental. It’s probably all the time she spends with Rita. That level of saccharine dedication to the world's least logical woman could scramble anyone’s brain.

She trudges into the mansion and down the second hall after the main entrance, slamming open the door to the “makeup department” that should really be considered the first unused bedroom with a full bathroom that some of the crew took over to have actual running water during prep. It’s a mess, and Tissaia will be frothing at the mouth when she calculates how much they’re going to pay the rich, eccentric fucks who rent them the place each year for cleaning, but for now, she can’t chastise them.

“I need to seduce a contestant. Someone get me a drink. And find me something sluttier to wear.” She has no idea when her schedule will clear enough to actually find Triss, but she clearly needs to look hot when she does! And in the meantime, making people walk into the columns on the patio because they were staring at her tits and not where they were going is very soothing.

She’s immediately besieged by dozens of fluttering hands offering low-cut shirts and filling in her eyebrows. Because while she and the makeup crew have a rather uneasy treaty of coexistence, her ability to consistently bring heavily caffeinated peace offerings from the outside world tends to mean she gets to skip all the lines that the contestants are stuck waiting in. 

“Wait. Tissaia has you doing  _ what _ ?” 

“Have you actually lost your  _ mind _ ?

“Has  _ she _ ?”

“Well, seeing as she felt up a contestant yesterday, that's entirely possible.” 

The room erupts into peals of laughter. There hasn’t been nearly enough drama this season for people to be bored of enabling it yet, and that means  _ everyone  _ wants details of, well, everything. Even the shit they should stay quiet about if they know what’s good for them. Not pissing off Tissaia about her little moment of lesbian disasterdom is one of them. Sabrina can’t help but scoff at their obliviousness, especially regarding what exactly Tissaia could be motivated by to do this, repeated again and again between sips of white wine until she’s ready to scream.  _ Obviously,  _ Tissaia is thinking of their  _ profit margin _ . That thing that determines everyone’s bonus? That thing Sabrina gets a healthy percentage of? The reason they have a fucking show?   
  


Some people need to get their priorities straight. 

“All of you  _ shut the hell up and listen to me _ !” She slams her fist on the table before she realizes that is exactly one of the behaviors that landed her in anger management classes three seasons ago, and may very well piss off the most vindictive crew on set. Ugh. “Even if Tissaia  _ had  _ lost her mind, she is still in charge. But since, to the best of my knowledge, she’s still the cold-hearted bitch we know and love, would  _ someone  _ fetch me more fucking mascara so we can get on with our lives? I have an engagement to prevent.” 

And thank all the gods for that. Triss should not marry Geralt. He’s a nice enough man, and they have many things in common and a mutual attraction, but it’s not in the least bit sustainable. For reasons. Like that Sabrina doesn’t want them to work out, and she is a sabotage genius. So. Fuck that! 

Deep breaths. It’s fine that she doesn’t want them together. She’s supposed to! It’s even fine that she wants Triss for herself, because Tissaia said so, and for Sabrina that is on par with the gods descending from the heavens to forgive her. So fine. She’ll chase the girl like she was told, she’ll get bored of her like she does with all her girlfriends that aren’t just friends with benefits, and then this entire mess can end. So what the  _ hell  _ is wrong with her that’s making her feel actual guilt?! 

She needs more wine. And sleep.

* * *

  
  


Tissaia recognizes her response to Sabrina’s little crush could have been better. Gentler, certainly, though she stands by her decision to use it for both of their professional gain rather than reassign her best employee because she couldn’t keep it in her pants.

Tissaia is, after all, not in the position to criticize her for it. Because after the little incident involving one soaking wet Yennefer Vengerberg, a large audience of her underlings, and some purely accidental groping, she is having difficulty keeping it together herself.

This is highly inconvenient. She needs Yennefer to make a show, and that means she can neither eliminate her for her own mental stability nor say anything that might cause her to quit. Though she doubts she could. Yennefer seems to be having far too much fun with this to leave. Good for her. But Tissaia is having a truly atrocious time of it, and she needs this bizarre hormonal mess to untangle itself and leave before she does something drastic like join Tinder.

She isn’t used to being attracted to people in a way she can’t squash, and it is horrendous. Why did people enjoy this so much they went on dating shows like this one to ruin their reputations on live TV? She doesn’t particularly care about the answer as long as they keep  _ doing it _ , but still. Call it purely scientific curiosity on the insanity of the human race.

Well, the human race minus her. It’s why she’s perfect for her job. Love is a joke. A very profitable joke, and since she gets a massive share of those profits, she’s rather motivated. It’s so very easy for her to strip the whole thing down to a series of scripted moments to make episodes around. Even if everyone around her loses their minds and starts believing silly things like “I should get my heart broken by a contestant for no discernable reason” or “dating shows are a good place to find a spouse, you should totally steal a contestant from Geralt.” Like dating doesn’t turn people into shallow husks of their former selves and ruin everything.

“Hey.” As if summoned by her thunderous mood, Yennefer stands in her doorway, mercifully clothed this time. She’s grinning lazily, and she’s holding a rose. The image causes Tissaia’s overworked brain to release a load of neurochemicals that ruin her ability to think rationally enough that she gets the urge to  _ hug  _ the woman for a second. 

Oh, no. No, no, absolutely not. She does not know what fresh round of fuckery this is, but she wants none of it. 

“Is someone dying?”

The smile briefly flickers off of Yennefer’s oh-so-pretty face as she processes the less than situationally appropriate response. “...No?”

“Then please come back later.” Or never. She’ll give Yennefer a phone, and they can keep plotting embarrassing moments over email and making fun of the other contestants, and she will never need to be in the same room with the woman again. Yes. This is an excellent plan. Yennefer needs to make her exit immediately.

“Is this what you’re like every time you touch another woman’s breasts, or am I special?” Yennefer does not come back later. She doesn’t even leave. Instead, she saunters into the office and locks the door behind her like she has an equal share of the place, forgoing a chair to lean over Tissaia’s desk like that’s completely acceptable behavior. It is not. She is messing up Tissaia’s organizational system for one and causing her hormones to warp into overdrive for another. She can feel the beginnings of a massive headache coming on, along with the urge to say some rather offensive things to get rid of the unwelcome mental stimulus. 

“You are not special!” Oh, wonderful. When panicked, default to shouted denials and idiotic statements that make her sound like some sort of repressed mess. Where is Renfri? The woman usually has an uncanny sense of when Tisaia needs a more terrifying version of a nightclub bouncer.

“...You are so cute when you’re freaking out. Anyway. I wanted to apologize for the pool thing. As much as I like having your hands on me, I can’t imagine it was fun having your coworkers around for that.”

“...No. It wasn’t.” Tissaia’s mouth is running on autopilot. What does she  _ mean _ , she liked it? This is not – She cannot handle this. Whatever it is. This cannot happen right now, and so if this bizarre little mental collapse could come back later, that would be wonderful.

“If you ever want a redo, I’m totally down for that. Just so you know.” Yennefer’s eyes flash with barely concealed mischief, and Tissaia can feel her mouth going dry, the well-oiled machine that is her brain beginning to overheat like a cheap laptop.

What does one  _ say  _ to this? Does Yennefer have  _ any  _ idea the number of lawsuits this conversation could spawn? No, probably not. But Tissaia does, and she is not okay with it.

“I don’t. This is inappropriate.” She sounds like a robot. And Yennefer lasts about two seconds before the laughter starts. Admittedly, she’s very pretty when she laughs. And when she doesn’t. And always. 

“You need someone to defrost you  _ so bad. _ Oh my  _ gods,  _ Tissaia.”

She takes offense to that. Just because she takes pride in her rather icy reputation doesn’t mean she needs some overgrown college student attempting the world’s most sexual intervention.

“I believe Rita has already claimed that position. Enough, Yennefer.” She regrets saying that so fast. The last thing she needs is Yennefer and Rita in some unholy alliance to make her  _ normal _ . She wouldn’t survive the chaos.

“Ugh, fine.” Yennefer, strangely, is still smiling. Tissaia did not expect that. Usually, people were less smug when their advances were denied. “Do let me know if you change your mind. A quickie between takes might be good for your blood pressure. It’s not like you can just go get a massage out here. Although I’d be happy to help with that, too.” She is leaning closer, and Tissaia realizes that if this were on camera, she’d be calling for a kiss to end the damn scene.

They are not on camera. They are in her office, and she was just propositioned by her current most valuable contestant, who is  _ still here  _ and close enough to kiss her. 

“Yennefer. You need to leave. This little stunt will in no way affect your standing in the competition, nor our...other arrangement. But you need to go.” Before Tissaia snaps and leans in enough to – No. No, she has more discipline than this. She is not thinking about Yennefer’s red lips and how soft they look. That would be pure lunacy.

“Mmm-hmm. I’ll get right on that. By the way, you might want to get a camera on Kalis. She thinks that Ashley is the one who put liquid ass in her shoes and underwear drawer.”

“Who did  _ what _ ?” Tissaia seizes the distraction with both hands, grateful that this is, at least, safer territory. Plotting with Yennefer is familiar, and in fact enjoyable at times. Although this particular scheme sounds like the brainchild of a frat house. Tissaia does not want to know the origin or purpose of whatever a product called “liquid ass” might be, though given Yenenfer’s stellar track record she will email Rita to acquire more for next season. All she knows is that it is exactly the sort of immature stunt that she’s come to expect from Yennefer and she can’t help but chuckle over it. The ingenuity of this woman is impressive. And terrifying. 

“Just stay upwind and don’t inhale too deeply.” Yennefer imparts this sage advice with a solemn expression, the glee in her eyes threatening to ruin the whole effect. Tissaia feels the pull of admiration deep in her chest. The devious streak only makes her more attractive, unfortunately. 

“I shall make note of that. And possibly send out a warning email. You may collect your...salary with payroll.” She feels so awkward. She’s used her words to ruin lives, and yet here she is, barely able to spit out a coherent sentence. Maybe Rita was right. She needs to get this out of her system before she stops being able to function. 

“Great. I’ll see you later. Think about what I said, hmm? You’re too sexy to be this cranky all the time.” 

With that, she leaves as dramatically as she’d swept in, and Tissaia is left with a rose on her desk and a growing sense of doom.

This is why she pays Sheala. To handle the crazy.  _ Why  _ is she paying Sheala if this is what she has to deal with? 

She leans against the desk, fingers splayed over the cool wood. This is fine. Nothing is on fire, ratings are high, she’s going to prevent Sabrina from getting hurt, find Triss Merigold a small mob of suitors to make up for the inconvenience of this little affair, and quash any fondness for Yennefer’s mischievous smirk. It will all. Be.  _ Fine.  _

The fact that her hands shake as she attempts to pour herself a drink doesn’t mean a godsdamned thing. 

It doesn’t mean a godsdamned thing that she stays in her office directing the response to Yennefer’s handiwork with a childish delight in the sheer spitefulness of it all that she hasn’t felt in years the rest of the day, nor that when it’s too late to keep working, she brings the rose back with her to bed. It doesn’t matter that no matter how cynical she’s gotten after so much time working on the world’s most heteronormative mess as a chronically single lesbian, some tiny little part of her wants to hug Yennefer for making her smile at work, a feat that used to belong to Rita alone.

It really, really doesn't matter that she dreams of violet eyes and lilac perfume, or that she’s smiling when she wakes.

* * *

It is three am, so Rita is on the roof of the mansion with Jaskier, a bottle of tequila, and a growing sense of frustration with humanity.

“How did they mess this up? I give Tissaia a soaking wet woman in a bikini, and she hides in her office for ten hours? At this point, I’m wondering if she’s secretly a robot.”

  
  


“Please. Robots are programmed to care for human life.” Jaskier slugs back his wine, since this time Rita remembered to get him something lighter than absinthe, and leans against one of the many chimneys. The roof is pretty much the only place to go when you want privacy on set. After someone decided to jump off of it and into the pool, they are technically not allowed up here. The groundskeeper had said something about the shingles, but Ida lives in a cabin in the woods and smokes enough weed to speak like she’s dropping the secrets to the universe with every breath like some sort of sage, so Rita doesn’t listen to her. Or anyone. Rita doesn’t listen, period, unless someone ties her up first.

“She cares. Deep,  _ deep  _ down. That’s the problem. You saw her big gay freakout. She  _ likes  _ her, just like Sabrina likes Triss.” The similarities between both disaster lesbians on this set are rather hysterical. And frustrating. “...Do you think Sabrina is, like, a failed Tissaia clone?”

“She wishes she were Tissaia’s clone. Or Tissaia, I suppose. The hero worship has gotten to the point where I’m shocked she hasn’t made the witch a shrine.”

They lock eyes and burst into giggles. Sabrina’s admiration for their director is sweet and all, but it’s also super unhealthy and the whole reason she isn’t engaged to Triss right now, so fuck that. 

“I think if I took a shot for every time Sabrina says Triss is too good for Geralt, I’d die.” Granted, she already drinks way too much, but that might really be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“She said that?” Jaskier looks particularly affronted, spluttering as his hands flap about like startled doves. “She – That is outrageous! Geralt is...is...Geralt is perfect, and can be with anyone he likes!” 

“Of course he can. Just preferably not Triss or Yennefer.” Or anyone not named Jaskier. This poor man is so far gone on their bachelor Rita is tempted to ask Tissaia to make history and make the season co-ed. One male contestant couldn’t hurt!

“He likes them though. Right? Fuck. I’m a terrible friend. We shouldn’t be meddling – Well, maybe you should be. To help Tissaia. But I shouldn’t!”

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. She cannot have Jaskier enter a guilt spiral on the roof. That’s a great way to end up with both a death and damage to the shingles. So this is a firm no-go, and he needs to stop being a big bisexual mess. That’s her job anyway.

“Babe. He can’t marry both of them. Like, maybe he could somewhere near Nilfgaard or something, but I’m pretty sure the north doesn’t do that. So technically shoving one of them at someone else is okay.” In the Rita school of crisis management, the main idea is to just keep stalling and making the problem seem moderately smaller until it goes away by itself. That, or drink more booze and see what drunk her comes up with, but they’re already at the drunk stage.

“...You want to shove both of them. At our coworkers, even. And while Triss and Sabrina would make a very fetching couple…” He sniffs heavily, and Rita realizes he’s crying. Oh, shit. She sucks at the whole comforting thing. Normally, her friends pretend they don’t have feelings, so having someone crying against her shoulder is weird, but she is a professional and she will figure it the fuck out. Channel Triss. What would a nice person do?

“Listen. You want Geralt to be happy, right?”

“Of course I do! More than anything. Even a record label!”

Okay. She can work with this. “He’s not gonna be happy dating the woman trying to bang our producer. Like. That’s going to give the man an inferiority complex.” She thinks she remembers Sheala talking about those. They exist. What they actually involve is anyone’s guess.

“So then he should date Triss.”

Uh, no? Because then Sabrina will be mopey and miserable, and Tissaia won’t have her bachelorette. Rita could deal with one of those things but certainly not both. “Look me in the face and tell me he’s not treating this girl like a little sister. Plus, we both know you want Sabrina to keep melting into gay mush.”

Jaskier frowns, then starts shaking his head and muttering about wrinkles. He and Sabrina really could be siblings, with the matching vanity.

“What, exactly, are you suggesting? We lock them all in closets and tell Geralt he has to marry Kalis?”

“Does Geralt even want to get married?” The closet thing is a good idea. They should revisit the closet thing. Because Tissaia needs to come out of one, and if she refuses, then shoving Yennefer in with her might be the next best thing.

Jaskier mutters something against her shoulder, but it’s muffled and she has no idea what the fuck he’s attempting to communicate. 

“Uh, come again?” Whatever it is, it’s embarrassing, and she thrives on that shit.

“...I don’t actually know. If he wants to marry anyone. But he’s  _ here! _ ”

Oh, for the love of fuck. The contestants want to bang the crew, the host is in love with the bachelor, the producer is giving herself an ulcer, and the bachelor doesn’t even want a wife. She needs a new job. Tissaia needs a new job. They  _ all  _ need new jobs!

“You’re here. Does that mean you want to be the face of this shitshow?”

“I’m offended you’d even ask!” Great! Offended means less crying. 

“So you agree that Geralt shouldn’t marry any of these girls, and ethically, we’re free to matchmake? We’re like, protecting him from peer pressure and Tissaia.” 

“Protecting him for once, hmm? I suppose he does deserve it, the noble bastard.”

“He does!” And he also deserves a big dramatic mess to marry. Like the one sitting next to her. This is going to be so perfect. No one ever falls in love for real on this bullshit, and now they’ll have  _ three  _ actual love stories, and Tissaia will be saved from a heart attack by fifty via emergency doses of sex and cuddling. This is perfect. 

She just won’t tell Jaskier he’s her accomplice to planning his own wedding to Geralt. He might get all “I can’t manipulate my best friend” on her ass, which is ridiculous because that’s half the fun of best friends.

“Fine. It’s a deal. Death to compulsory heterosexuality and possibly our careers.” They drink, because what other way do you punctuate that statement? She leans closer to Jaskier, glad for the extra heat in the chill of one am in fall. The stars twinkle merrily back like they share this secret with her. An owl hoots in the distance. Everything is peaceful, the groundskeeper isn’t trying to sneak in and “borrow” anyone’s booze or starts screaming about bear traps being set at her door, and Tissaia’s office lights are finally off. It’s like the universe is aligning in her favor!

Those are usually famous last words before everything goes to hell. But she’s sure it will be fine!


End file.
